


Matter Over Mind

by Pubella



Series: Mind Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Apprenticeship, BAMF Hermione Granger, Death Eaters, F/M, Rated E for later chapters, Romance, Slow Burn, Snarky Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-07-02 23:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 88,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15806775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pubella/pseuds/Pubella
Summary: ** Sequel to Mind Over Matter **When we left off with our heroes, Hermione had just saved Severus's life after collecting/stealing the ingredients necessary to brew his nerve regeneration potion. He offers her an accelerated apprenticeship that can be done in one year, given how advanced she already is in the subject. She expects that they will carry on with their personal relationship as well, but after meeting her parents, and getting a bit of a talking to from Minerva, Severus acknowledges that he, too, is concerned about her age and lack of experience with the world. He wants Hermione to spend the year as his apprentice "exploring her options," so to speak. She's not happy about it, and he's not terribly keen either, but he wants her to be sure of her feelings. She kisses a lot of frogs before she finds her Prince, who by unfortunate circumstance has to watch her do it - literally. Their relationship is further complicated by the fact that she wants to "improve" on Severus's original potion for her master's project. Characters from Mind Over Matter return, including Mr. Duggins, Natalia Veneena, Rufus Wingtree, and Moran Ledbetter.Although this is a sequel, the story can, I think, stand on its own.





	1. Wendell and Monica Wilkins

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for the long-promised sequel to Mind Over Matter. It is different than what you might be expecting, but I hope you will like it anyway. Mr. Duggins has a staring role, now, and other characters from the original story return as well. More of Hermione's friends show up, too. 
> 
> This story IS COMPLETE. As with my other two works, I plan to post weekly on Saturdays, using the time in between to do one last edit. If I miss a posting it is either because I am ill (I had a migraine on Friday), or because the internet is out (which it was all day yesterday and a good deal of today, maddeningly). Oh, and I have to go out of town next weekend, but I will try to get a chapter up anyway. But again, this story has been finished and it has a definite end!
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**Wendell and Monica Wilkins**

She had only been gone an hour and already he missed her. Missed having lunch with her, missed talking to her about plans for refitting the damaged potions classroom, missed watching her get bossy with students helping to clear all the rubble away, missed her glinting eyes and cheeky smile, missed her bushy hair and soft skin, missed . . .  missed . . . .

 _Merlin’s ruddy balls!_ If he couldn’t get through _one_ hour without absolutely _aching_ for her, how the _hell_ he was going to deal with getting into a cold, empty bed that evening, or not seeing her head on the pillow next to his when he got up in the morning? How was he going to manage being _without_ her for a _whole fucking week_?

The situation was simply unbearable, almost as intolerable as being so fucking besotted with her in the first place. How long had he lived without the regular touch a woman? The whole of his _fucking life_ – the occasional encounter in Knockturn Ally notwithstanding – and now he felt like a hormone-addled teenager, but he most decidedly wasn’t one, even if he _had_ done more shagging in the previous four weeks than in . . . well, a _very_ long time. He was instead a snarky, thirty-eight-year-old potions professor, in love – positively _besotted_ , more like – with his former student, a vibrant young woman just shy of nineteen. He had survived – quite unexpectedly – the worst war the wizarding world had ever experienced after having spent the previous twenty-years or so working for the side of the Light as a member of the Order of Phoenix. For the past three years, he had played the role of a double agent, and for his troubles had been repeatedly hexed and cursed, cut up and savagely beaten at the Dark Lord’s instigation if not by his actual hand. He should have died – it was in Dumbledore’s plan, it was what everyone had seemed to expect and want – and he would have done had it not been for the sheer bloody-mindedness of the Gryffindor princess, the object of his affection, Hermione Granger. She and the other two members of the Golden Trio had witnessed Voldemort and his snake’s vicious attack, and when he was left to die on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, bleeding and already suffering from the familiar’s venom, she had stayed behind to do what she could, which turned out to be rather a lot.

Hermione spent nearly a week _collecting_ – often at great personal risk – the ingredients needed for a nerve regeneration potion he had recently developed, and then she had seen him through the difficult healing process. Out of this shared experience, the feelings both had harbored for each other finally came to the surface, and now that he was fully recovered he was never, fucking _ever_ going to let her go. With the sun behind him, he looked down at the shadow he cast on the ground – one-hour-and- _fifteen_ minutes. _Fucking hell_. Well there was at least one thing he could do with his time besides help Minerva with her rebuilding plans, and perhaps it would make him slightly more presentable as far as Hermione’s parents were concerned.  

Hermione was lucky to have been able to secure the necessary portkeys to Australia so quickly, but there were advantages to being a war hero. Only six weeks before she wasn’t sure she would be making this trip, wasn’t sure she was even going to survive the war. But she had, and had saved Severus in the process.

She’d had a crush on him for almost as long as she could remember. At first, it had been the usual superficial, girlish fixation that peers her age tended to have with male authority figures, but after Victor Krum tried it on with her at the Yule Ball – he hadn’t anticipated that she would bring her wand to the dance – her appreciation for her snarky and unsociable potions professor started to deepen and mature. Ron’s juvenile antics and lack of intellectual interests concentrated her thoughts even more firmly on her fellow Order of the Phoenix member, but what cinched it for her was when her supposed friend actually deserted her and Harry in a fit of piqué while searching for Horcruxes. They had made up, but the friendship had been damaged, and her affection for the _other_ man in her life became more firmly rooted.

So by the time she was confronted with her potions professor dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, her motivation to save him was _personal_. After administering some first aid and emergency potions, she managed to get him to the infirmary where, after a convulsive fit, his mind took up temporary residence in hers. They had sparred quite a bit during his occupancy – he was such an irascible bugger and always would be – but she enjoyed the back and forth, and they worked well together. With his guidance and her ingenuity, she managed to collect – and in some cases _steal_ – the necessary ingredients for the potion that ultimately saved his life. She had been a bit shy of him in the immediate aftermath, but that feeling quickly fell by the wayside, and just how much that was the case still made her blush.

He was her first real love, her first adult relationship, and she was hopeful that it would be her last. She might be young, but she had lived a lifetime in the last year and she knew her own mind. He gave every indication that he felt similarly about her, but she knew there would be outside objections. Waves of if not exactly disapproval then certainly concern were already rolling off Minerva, and she knew her friends would be absolutely stunned by their relationship. But her parents would object the most, especially after what she had done to them, and she knew they would not be in a forgiving frame of mind about anything but particularly not about her thirty-eight-year-old former-teacher-turned-lover. Oh no, altering their memories – erasing herself from their lives and making them want to close their dentistry business, change their names and move to Australia – was _one_ thing, but tolerating this particular man in her life would be something else _altogether_ , especially once they met him.

Hermione had watched tearfully from a distance as James and Jean Granger, now Wendell and Monica Wilkins as they were in their new passports, set off for Australia with all of their savings, which she hoped would be enough to enable them to open a new practice and settle down. She had ensured that her father carried the business card of a realtor in Melbourne inside his coat pocket, and that, she hoped, would be the key to finding them later on.

And so it proved to be the case. With just a story about wanting to look up old neighbors, the real-estate office was easily persuaded to give her their address, and that moment more than anything else confirmed how right she had been to send them to the other side of the world in the first place. With so much more information to go on back in England, Death Eaters would have had no difficulty in tracking down her parents, and she knew that they _had_ been targets. But validation would be cold comfort if she couldn’t restore their memories.

She stood _Disillusioned_ in shadows as she watched her parents’ suburban Melbourne house from across the street. The upstairs lights went out about midnight and she waited an hour before approaching. It was winter and drizzling, which meant that the windows would likely be closed and the neighbors would be none the wiser of her activities. She slipped through the gate to the back yard, put her wand to the lock on the kitchen door, and with an _Alohomora_ she was in the kitchen. Luckily, her parents didn’t own a dog and she quietly made her way up the stairs. Even if she hadn’t noted the room with the lights, her father’s snoring would have led her to the door she needed – the noise used to drive her mad when she was young, but now it was familiar and deeply comforting. She slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside, the nightlight from the ensuite bathroom illuminating her way. She stifled a sob as she beheld her peacefully sleeping parents. The desire to wake them and fling herself into their arms was almost crippling, and it was all she could do to remain still. She took several deep breathes to calm down and regain her concentration. She had come here to restore her parents’ memories – it was going to take a while and she needed a clear head and steady hand.  

Her parents used her full name more times that morning than they had in the entirety of her life. Initially, they had been a bit confused about why she was in their bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, but when the lights came on and they got their bearings – remembering where they were and who they had been for the last year or so of their lives – the outrage set in. She let them rant – they had earned the right – but they were still at it many hours later when they sat down to breakfast. Her mind wandered back to Severus – Melbourne was nine hours ahead of Britain, which meant that he was probably just going to bed, and she wished she was there.   

“Are you listening to me, young lady?” Jean Granger asked tersely.

Hermione turned her weary head towards her mother.

“I just don’t understand how you could have done such a thing,” Jean continued, her father jumping in to pick up the slack when her mother paused to take a breath. And so it continued.

For nearly a week.

She tried to tell them about the events concerning the war but didn’t want to unnecessarily distress them, so she glossed over Dumbledore’s death, was vague about her travels with the boys, skipped _completely_ over the events at Malfoy Manor, and shared virtually nothing about the last battle at the school itself. It all sounded ridiculous, even to her, in this truncated form, so she stopped trying to make them understand. At least they hadn’t thrown her out and that had to be good enough for the moment. What she really needed to do was prepare them to meet Severus, who had promised – not quite as reluctantly as she had expected, although he clearly loathed the prospect – to join her at the end of the week.

“Mum . . . Dad . . . I’ve got a . . . a _friend_ who’s going to be arriving tomorrow,” she began over dinner.

They had been quite vocal about her _Obliviating_ their memories, but were eerily quiet about the unexpected house guest, which didn’t bode well – _at all_.

“You say this . . . _Snape_ person is one of your . . . your _professors_?” her father asked, barely able to suppress his fury.

“Well, yes . . . I . . . I mean, no,” she stammered, “he was but he hasn’t been for over a year, now.” It sounded lame even to her.

“Did he seduce you?”

Merlin, her mother had always been one to get to the heart of a matter. “Of course not!” she responded indignantly, but she could tell that neither of them believed her.

“And how old is this . . . _professor_?” he father continued, tetchily.

This one was going to hurt.

“He’s in his thirties,” she hedged, feeling no need to be any more precise than that.

Her parents’ forks hit their dinner plates almost simultaneously. They said nothing, but the looks they exchanged told her _exactly_ what they were thinking – she _had_ been seduced.

She could have told them that witches and wizards lived much longer than Muggles and by that standard he wasn’t even middle-aged, but she didn’t because it would have been yet another difficult conversation that she didn’t want to have for many more years to come. So she threw her napkin on the plate, pushed away from the table, and flung out of the room instead. It was a petulant, even _childish_ thing to do, especially since she was trying to be adult about it all, but she couldn’t help herself. The drumming she could expect them to give Severus was not to be contemplated.  

She had no idea of when to expect him, so she prepared carefully the following morning. Slacks rather than jeans, fitted shirt, and dress clogs, which at least made her taller than her mother – she would take whatever advantage she could get. She put her hair up in a bun and applied a touch of makeup. Surveying her efforts in the mirror, she was disappointed. Already, stray tendrils were tickling her neck, which softened the effect she was trying for, and without a mask and revealing dress – like what she had worn to the swingers party just a few weeks before – she looked only marginally older than she actually was. It was the best she could do.

When she appeared at breakfast, she could see that her parents were under no illusions about what she was up to, though they kept their thoughts to themselves. Lunch came and went as well, and he still hadn’t arrived. She was beyond being able to read quietly, but she didn’t dare leave the house for a walk in case he turned up while she was out, so she took to fiddling in her mother’s garden, not that there was much to do given the season. It was tea time when the doorbell finally rang and she was in the middle of filling a pot with boiling water. Her father got up from the kitchen table and stayed her with a forbidding look. She heard low voices and then the distinctive thud of a door being firmly shut.   

“There’s an undertaker at the door for you, Hermione,” her father said grimly, coming into the kitchen to pick up the tea tray. “We’ll need another cup, Jean,” he said portentously over his shoulder as he headed for the sitting room.

Hermione went to the hallway expecting to find him waiting for her, but there was no sign of him, which meant that . . . . Oh dear Merlin, her father had slammed the door in Severus’s face! She opened it slowly, fully expecting to find him with his wand drawn and in battle mode. He stood there glowering and _supremely_ annoyed but at least not threatening actual violence.  

“I see you’ve told your parents about me,” he observed acerbically.

Hermione was undeterred. She stepped forward and put her arms around his neck before pulling his head down and kissing him firmly. His hands automatically slid down her sides and around her waist as he drew her further in. After slipping her tongue hungrily between his lips, she suddenly paused, withdrew, and leaned back. As she studied him, he arched a brow.

“Severus . . . Severus, what _have_ you done to your teeth?” she asked curiously.

He gave her an exaggerated smile that would have terrified even the Dark Lord himself – his teeth had been straightened and significantly whitened.

“One less thing for your dentist parents to dislike me for,” he grimaced, thinking about how ridiculously excited Madam Pomfrey had been that he had finally allowed her to do it. 

The faint clatter of crockery reminded her of the moment, and she pulled him into the hallway and closed the door.

“They are hopping mad about me altering their memories,” she whispered.

“From my brief exchange with your father, I gather they’re not too happy about _me_ , either,” he drawled sarcastically.  

She grabbed his shoulders and looked him square in the face.

“Like you or not, you’re _mine_ , and I’m _not_ letting you go,” she said furiously. “Come on,” she said, dragging him down the front hall and into the sitting room. The corners of his mouth curled slightly upwards at her declaration and insistent demeanor, but they fell when they reached the room at the end of the hall.

Hermione’s parents stood as they came into the room, their disapproval stark upon their chilly faces as they disdainfully looked him up and down – black trousers, black shirt, black coat and tie. It was clear that they considered him a poor candidate for their daughter. 

“Mum, Dad, I’d like you to meet Severus Snape,” she said almost defiantly, elbowing him ever so slightly to dislodge the scowl that was his default expression. He smiled faintly and boldly offered his hand – he knew the drill and was certainly was no coward. Her father grasped it hesitantly – it was obvious that he didn’t want to become too friendly with a man he was very probably going to ask to step outside and horsewhip later on in the evening for having the temerity to take up with his daughter.

“What should we call you, _professor_?” Jean asked with distinct coolness.

Hermione was impressed with his self-restraint – he didn’t even reflexively reach for his wand.

“Severus is acceptable,” he said evenly if equally stiff and formal.  

Her mum gestured awkwardly at the sofa and chairs situated around a low table. “Would you please sit down?” There was no warmth in the offer.

“Hermione, will you excuse us so we may talk with _Severus_ ,” her father ordered, and while his request was aimed at his daughter, he didn’t take his eyes away from their guest.

“I most certainly will not!” she responded forcefully, taking a chair directly across from her professor. Her father’s head jerked around to glare at her, clearly more than a little surprised at this show of disobedience.

“Perhaps it would be best,” her mother added sternly.

“Best for whom?” she challenged. “I am of age – in _this_ world as well as the wizarding one – and my life is my _own_. _I_ will decide what I will do with it!”

 _Brava_ , Severus wanted to say, but instead gave her the merest nod of approval.

“As you wish,” her mother said tightly as she sat down and began pouring out the tea. After they all had their cups, her father broke the uncomfortable silence.

“So, you’re the Professor Snape our daughter has told us endless and, may I say, _outrageous_ stories about since she first started at Hogwarts?” her father began aggressively. Hermione’s swift intake of breath was audible. “You didn’t think we would recognize the name, did you?” he turned to rebuke his daughter as her face turned bright red.

“So you’ve been our daughter’s _teacher_ for exactly _how long_?” her mother asked, the accusation clear in the question.

As her parents stared daggers at him, he lifted the cup to his lips for the barest of sips before setting it back down – Hermione came by her gumption honestly, he could see.

“Yes, it’s true, I have known Hermione since she started at Hogwarts,” he began steadily, “although I’ve only gotten to know her better more recently.”

“She’s _still_ very young,” her father replied accusingly. Hermione snorted indignantly.

“So it might seem,” he responded coolly.

“It’s not a supposition, it’s a _fact_!” James Granger sharply rebutted.

“She was seventeen when she . . . when you left Britain,” he began, trying to skirt what had obviously been a divisive issue. “A lot has happened to her since then.”

Her father’s steely eyes bore into him. “Did you have anything to do with removing our memories?” he asked through gritted teeth, only just managing to keep hold of his temper.

“No, Mr. Granger, I did not,” he firmly replied. Her father, however, was in no way mollified by that information. “But in the interest of full disclosure,” Severus continued, “I am simply . . . in _awe_ of the courage and skill it took for her to do that.”

“ _Courage?!_ ” her father sputtered.

“Yes,” Severus finally snapped. “It took real courage to erase your memories in order to _protect_ you, knowing even as she did that she might not be able to return them. She loved you both so much that she was willing to make the greatest sacrifice of her life – she was willing to let you _go_ so you might _live_ ,” he said forcefully.

Her parents remained grim-faced.

“Just . . . just how bad was this war anyway,” her father asked, glancing at his daughter, still unpersuaded that she might have been justified in altering their memories.     

Severus looked again at Hermione, who shook her head slightly. “I tried to tell them,” she barely whispered, “but I didn’t want to frighten them.”

He understood her dilemma, but they had to know how unblinkingly brave their daughter had been, what she had seen and done, and what had turned her into the formidable _woman_ she now was, regardless of whatever they thought of her chronological age. And they had to know what _he_ had done as well. He clenched his jaw – Merlin, he hated this.

“Do you have anything stronger?” he finally asked her father, gesturing dismissively at the tea in front of them.

The whiskey flowed freely over the next two hours, as between them they explained as best they could to a couple of middle-aged Muggles what the last few years had really been like. When they got to the part about Malfoy Manor, Hermione drew his attention and shook her head, not wanting him to reveal what had been done to her – the torture, the scars on her arm.

“They need to know,” he said, quietly resolved on the matter.  

And so he shared what Hermione had endured. They stared at him in disbelief, and then demanded to see her arm – reluctantly, she raised her sleeve and they gasped. That was the moment the truth started to sink in, that was when the tears started to flow. They both grabbed her and held her close. Severus stared into his whiskey glass, trying to shut out the sound of two people finally realizing how unbelievably lucky they were to be alive _and_ holding their beloved only child.

Eventually, Hermione pushed them away and urged them to sit down again – they weren’t finished yet. Severus resumed the narrative hesitantly, and whenever he downplayed his role, she corrected him, never failing to point out that he – as much as any of them – had saved the wizarding world and, by extension, her parents’ world as well. The only part they glossed over was the fact that he had spent nearly a week inside her mind as she gathered the ingredients for his life-saving potion. No, they certainly did not need to go into the particulars of _that_.   

“Were . . . .” her mother hesitated. “Were many people killed?” she asked in a shaky voice.

Hermione tried to respond, but it was all starting to overwhelm her and words failed. She hadn’t had time to mourn. In the days immediately following the war, her every waking moment was dedicated to finding the ingredients for Severus’s potion, and when she was certain that he had fully recovered, she had made her travel arrangements as quickly as possible. Once in Australia, she had wasted no time in finding her parents and restoring their memories, and having succeeded in those endeavors, there had then been their anger and recriminations to deal with. No, she hadn’t had a moment to stop and really consider the most recent losses – Moody, Dobby, Lupin, Tonks, Fred . . . and so many students – Lavender Brown, sweet, gentle Colin Creevy . . . . Explaining everything to her parents had made it all feel immediate again, and tears slowly trickled down her cheeks as she struggled to answer her mother’s question. She stood abruptly, opened one of the French doors, and stepped out into the winter evening.  

Severus’s face was grim and his lips were pressed into a thin line. He threw back the last of his whiskey, set the tumbler on the table, and followed Hermione into the garden. Her shoulders shook as she quietly sobbed. He didn’t have a lot of practice comforting distressed women – it was the part he most disliked about being head of a house – but when he gently touched the back of her arms, she immediately turned to him and buried herself into his chest, clutching his coat. He closed his arms around her and simply held her. She was shaking by this point and soon started to slip downwards. He bent his knees slightly and picked her up, her arms encircling his neck and her face still pressed against him.

This was all witnessed by her parents, who had remained motionless as the scene unfolded in their back yard. As Severus carried her into the sitting room, her mother silently led him through the hall, up the stairs, and into the guest bedroom. The last thing her mother saw before she closed the door was Severus sitting on the edge of the bed, rocking Hermione slowly in his arms as he whispered soothingly into her ear. 

When Hermione’s breathing started to level out Severus turned her around so she could stretch out on the bed. He took off his coat and loosened his tie before lying down next to her – she tucked herself neatly under his arm, curling her hand atop his chest and draping a leg over him.

“I think they like you,” she laughed weakly over the last of her sniffles.  

“If they were magical, I’d be _ash_ by now,” he replied, the tension starting to ease from his body as he reached to pull her firmly against him. 

“Merlin, I’ve missed you,” she sighed, squeezing him tightly. He felt the faintest of stirrings in his trousers, and so did she, given the position of her leg.

“You know we can’t . . . .” she began hesitatingly, before he quickly interrupted her.

“Of course I know!” he barked. “What do you take me for? All I need to seal my fate is to be caught _in flagrante delicto_ with you. No doubt a _gun_ would materialize out of _nowhere_ and my head would be blown off before I could grab my wand or cast a wordless spell – dingoes would make short work of my flesh while my bones would turn to dust in some uninhabitable place in the Australian outback. So if you don’t mind,” he said, pushing her leg gently away from his groin, “keep your _flagrante_ legs away from me.”

She huffed in amusement. Her parents had put him through the ringer, and she knew they weren’t done yet, even after all they had told them, but he hadn’t hexed them or fled the house, which spoke eloquently of his love as well as great restraint. What she didn’t know, however, was that her parents’ concern over her age troubled him more than he let on. A _lot_ more, more, in fact, than he was willing to admit even to himself.

The atmosphere in the Granger home underwent a radical shift overnight and the following day they were entirely solicitous of Hermione and infinitely more respectful of Severus, although they still weren’t entirely keen about him, either. To Hermione’s acute embarrassment, her mother asked her about birth control as they made lunch, while her father took Severus in the garden for a man-to-man chat.

“Under normal circumstances, I would be _adamantly_ opposed to you having anything to do with my daughter,” he began sternly. Severus kept his face neutral, but inwardly braced himself for further parental disapproval.

“But these _aren’t_ normal circumstances and you _don’t_ live conventional lives,” James Granger conceded, looking Severus steadily in the eye. “Clearly, you are a powerful . . . _individual_. Take good care of Hermione, because if you don’t,” he cautioned, stepping closer to stand toe to toe with him, “magical or no, I _will_ find you,” he said softly and quite menacingly. “I know Harry Potter and Professor McGonagall, and I doubt that they would look kindly on _anyone_ who hurt my daughter.”

James stared at him unflinchingly, which was something very few people ever managed to do, and Severus couldn’t help but admire the man. Hermione’s father was several inches shorter than him but that didn’t lessen his pugnaciousness one iota, even though he had to know that in any kind of physical fight, he would lose. But when it came to his daughter, it plainly didn’t matter.

Severus cleared his throat. “I would think that after yesterday’s conversation you would, at the very least, come away firm in the knowledge that your diminutive daughter can pretty much take care of herself. But I will,” he held up his hand to prevent her father from interrupting, “nevertheless make you this promise – I will do everything I can to protect and care for her, to the extent that she will let me . . . and so will all of her _bloody friends_ , of that you can be sure,” he added with some irritation, almost under his breath.

There was a weighty moment of silence between them, and then James Granger slowly extended his hand. Severus took it, and for the first time since they had met, Hermione’s father smiled ever so slightly at the potions professor. It wasn’t a grand meeting of minds, but they had taken the measure of each other and found that they had something in common – they both loved Hermione fiercely in their own way.


	2. Minerva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva weighs in on Severus and Hermione's relationship, much to the potion master's chagrin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am out of town and I hope this posts correctly. Let me know if you like it - it helps keep me writing!

**Minerva**

As they stepped out into the Granger’s back garden to say goodbye, each of them back in their wizarding robes, Hermione’s parents drew her close for one last hug, and Severus could see that there was both genuine warmth and concern in their embrace. They had forgiven her for modifying their memories and accepted that she had acted with the best of intentions. They even seemed willing to suspend their judgement of him, at least for the time being. They had had an unexpected and terrifying look at the world she inhabited and it was going to take some adjusting to that new reality. For the moment, they were going to take their time deciding whether to remain in Australia or try to pick up where they had left off in Britain, but at least the relationship with their daughter had been repaired. Hermione now had their cell phone number and they had a message coin they could use if they needed to contact her – all they had to do was hold it for ten seconds and the companion piece she had would glow, alerting her that they wanted her to call them. He shook hands once more with her father, and even her mother extended herself. Once her parents were back inside Hermione and Severus touched the portkey medallion and were swiftly off.

It was good to be back in familiar surroundings, even if they happened to include a partially wrecked castle. As they made their way up from the apparition point to the main gate, parts of Hogwarts were silhouetted raggedly against the clear, morning sky. There were neat piles of rubble around the courtyard, all sorted into stacks of stones, splintered desks, and various materials that had obviously been cleared away from the damaged rooms inside. And from the sound of things, crews were already hard at work – Minerva wanted enough of the repairs to be done to reopen on time for the new school year, which was only just over a couple of months away.  

Mindful of his growing arousal now that he had Hermione virtually to himself, he steered away from the various construction sites just inside the main entrance, and ducked down empty corridors when he spotted the occasional colleague in the distance, all in the hope of reaching his undamaged quarters before someone dragooned them into helping out. It had been a week since he had touched the woman beside him and if his bollocks didn’t get some relief – and _soon_ – he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Hermione giggled as he alternatively dragged and pushed her along, knowing full well what he was up to. He growled in response, but he was in no doubt about her being just as eager as he was, which is why she ran full into the back of him when he abruptly stopped as he rounded the corner of the hallway to his quarters.

“Severus!” Hermione squeaked. His arm quickly swept behind him and he firmly grabbed her arm to silence her. She peeked around to see Minerva standing in front of the door to his rooms – her former head of house sported a definite smirk.

“Welcome back, Severus,” she smiled wickedly. “How are your parents, Hermione?”

Hermione stepped away from Severus, rising to the occasion even as he was falling to it. “Fine, thank you,” she responded primly.

“Any difficulties . . . _restoring their memories_?” she inquired slyly, looking at Severus, who had some difficulty in keeping his face neutral and wand hand still. Hermione blushed, but carried on as if her mentor hadn’t actually been asking what her parents had thought of the man standing beside her.

“There were no problems,” she reported nonchalantly.

“Good, good, I’m so glad to hear it. Now that you are both back, your help is urgently needed,” Minerva said smoothly.

“I’m not sure you’re aware of the time difference,” Severus said, casually trying to stifle a manufactured yawn.

“Quite aware, as it happens,” she said knowingly. “It’s just after 8:00 a.m., which would make it what, five in the evening there? Surely you have a few good hours left to spare for the rebuilding work? Besides,” she said, almost cruelly, “you know you should stay up in order to adjust to the time difference.” Minerva turned and started down the corridor before stopping and looking back at them. “Come along, Severus,” she said, now all business. “The ministry officials are here and they want to talk about refitting the school. Redoing the potions classroom is going to be particularly contentious and you need to be there to see that everything is done the way you want it. Hermione, I’m sure you can make yourself useful in the meantime . . . . ” she observed pointedly.

“I’ll be with you momentarily, Minerva,” Severus responded coolly.

The sharp click of her heels slowly faded into the distance, and when she was finally out of earshot, he could barely contain himself.

“That _bloody_ woman!” he spat, spinning around.

“Yes, well, the rebuilding goes on and if you want the potions classroom of your dreams, you had better not delay,” Hermione said resignedly.

Severus put his hand to his forehead, slowly dragging his fingers across his brow – that woman could kill an erection faster than the thought of Albus in his underwear.

“After you,” he said sourly, gesturing for her to lead the way. He fell in step behind her – it was pure torture watching her from behind as they made their way once more above ground.

Hermione didn’t see Severus at lunch, which took the form of sandwiches provided by the house elves, so she tucked in with the crew working for the magical construction company and the other students who had given up their summer hols to help get the school back into shape. She knew a few of them – most were only a year or two behind her – but she was especially glad to see Neville Longbottom, who was working to restore the damaged greenhouses with Pamona Sprout. He was going to do an apprenticeship with her in herbology, and they had both agreed that this was a perfect opportunity to begin his training – literally from the ground up – even if his status wasn’t official yet.

Hermione joined one of the several groups that were clearing away rubble from the classrooms, and by tea time, her own team had completely emptied no less than two of them. She was grateful for the tea and biscuits provided by the attentive house elves, and she had taken her cup to a sunny corner, drained it, and almost immediately drifted off. She only awoke when she felt something moving lightly across her forehead. Feeling a bit chilled, she opened her eyes to find Severus sitting back on his heels in front of her, blocking the sun as he brushed a stray curl away from her brow. His look of concern melted her, but it was almost immediately transformed into a scowl as he slowly stood to address the student who had had the audacity to interrupt to ask if she was ready to go back to work.  

“No, she _isn’t_ ready,” he brusquely told the startled student. Severus’s expression was one of disdain as he looked over the young man in front of him. He narrowed his eyes – there was something familiar about him.

“Do I know you?” he demanded in his usual imperious fashion.

“Um, yes, professor – Iggy, er, Ignatius Farthingale.” The young man squirmed under Severus’s studied eye. “I was in your potions class two years ago.”

Severus remembered young Iggy – he had been a fifth-year student then, about fifteen, slender, underdeveloped, spotty with a mop of indistinct hair. But the person in front of him was a good six inches taller and had sprouted some serious muscles – based on what he could see through his absurdly tight tee shirt – while the acne had cleared and the unkempt locks were now tingled with gold, no doubt from the sun he apparently worshiped judging on the quality of his tan. Severus sneered and Ignatius slunk away under the weight of it. He was still frowning when he took the mug from Hermione and extended his other hand to help her struggle stiffly to her feet. As she brushed off the seat of her jeans, he walked over and set the crockery down forcefully on the table. One withering look from him wiped the smirks and smiles from everyone’s faces – they quickly donned their safety helmets and scurried off to start on another classroom.

“Are you done for the afternoon?” Hermione asked as he turned back to her. Her hand shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun – she looked about as weary as he was starting to feel. He nodded, and they made their way down to the dungeons for the second time that day, infinitely more subdued than they had been previously.

 Once in his quarters, Hermione headed straight for the bedroom while Severus went to the liquor cabinet to pour out two tumblers of whiskey – he and Minerva had hammered out most of the particulars of her apprenticeship in between arguing with the Ministry officials over his classroom and he needed to discuss them with her. Well, it was actually the _second_ thing he needed to do, but when he went into the bedroom, he found her face down on the bed, already asleep. Resigned, he set the glasses on the night table and with a bit of wand work, got her undressed and under the covers. He took the whiskey back to the study and poured the contents of one glass into the other before sitting down in his reading chair by the hearth. _That bloody woman_ , he thought, after taking a hearty measure, glancing dejectedly in the direction of the bedroom.

Nearly sixteen hours later, a loud voice was beckoning him.

“Severus!”

For Merlin’s sake – now he was hearing her squawking even in his dreams. Would it _never_ stop?

“Severus – _get up_!”

He felt a jab in his ribs and sat up suddenly, wand in hand. He looked down at his side as Hermione grabbed at the blanket that had been inadvertently pulled off of her.

“Severus, I _know_ you can hear me.” The Scottish brogue was unmistakable, and rage surged through him as he realized it was the floo in the next room. Yanking the counterpane from the bed, he wrapped it around his waist as he stumbled into the study.

“Do you have any idea what bloody time it is?” he bellowed at the flames in his hearth.

“Yes, as matter of fact I _do_ – it’s 8:30 a.m. when all decent people are up and at work. You’ve already missed breakfast and I need to see you and Hermione in my office at 9:00. Plans have to be firmed up, so get a move on – time waits for no one and I have a lot on the rest of the day. I’ll have some food waiting for you when you get here.”

Just as he turned away he heard the distinctive sound of the bathroom door shutting. _Bugger!_ He hurried into the bedroom but the shower was already running. He sat down dejectedly on the bed and ran his hand over the warm sheets that Hermione had just abandoned as his third erection in twenty-four hours rapidly retreated. _That fucking woman_.

He got up and laid out some clean clothes before tossing aside the bedspread and heading into the bathroom. It was warm and steamy, and through the water streaming down the glass shower door he could see Hermione’s lithe figure as she quickly washed. When she finished, he was there with a towel, which he swiftly wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her side. He drew her close and pressed his lips softly against hers. She moaned as he ground his reviving member against her abdomen.

“We don’t have time,” she mumbled against his mouth.

He sighed and reluctantly pulled away as she adjusted her towel. From his many meetings with Minerva, the Ministry representatives, and the head of the magical construction company, he had seen first-hand that virtually every minute of his colleague’s day did indeed seem to be taken up with getting the school back in order. She might be spoiling his fun – was probably even _enjoying_ doing it – but she also really didn’t have a moment to spare.

He showered as quickly as he could and pulled on his clothes while Hermione cast a drying spell over his hair. He was still buttoning his coat when they stepped through the floo into Minerva’s office, the clock on the mantelpiece chiming out the top of the hour.   

“Well, it’s official – headmistress,” she announced grimly as they came in, setting aside the letter from the Board of Governors she had been consulting.

Both Severus and Hermione acknowledged the news, although they were infinitely more interested in the coffee and breakfast things sitting on a side table.  

“ _You_ didn’t want it, did you Severus?” Minerva inquired with feigned solicitousness. Severus growled at her, taking a large swig of his black coffee as he sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk. Hermione joined him with her croissant and tea.  

“Thank you for the breakfast,” Hermione offered politely, sipping from her cup. Minerva flashed an artful smile.

“They say an army marches on its stomach, and there is going to be a _lot_ of marching – today, tomorrow, and for the foreseeable future, I should imagine,” she commented obliquely, sipping her own cup of India’s best. Hermione glanced at Severus, whose only interest at the moment seemed to be imbibing as much caffeine as possible before having to deal with the new headmistress.  

“First things first, however.” Minerva sat her cup down and fumbled through some papers on her desk, pulling one out from the middle of the stack. “Severus and I have discussed your potions apprenticeship, and I’ve already filled out the necessary form for the Board of Governors,” she said, handing Hermione a piece of paper. “Have you discussed it with her?” Minerva asked, directing her question to Severus.

“I haven’t had an opportunity,” he said almost accusingly. Minerva continued to stare at him, as did Hermione. With a sigh, he put his coffee on the edge of the desk.

“You application,” he began, “won’t be official with the school or the Potioneers’ Guild until you’ve successfully done your NEWTs. If your scores are high enough – which of course they _will_ be – I’ll approach the head of the guild to let you take a special knowledge exam. Once you pass that, you will be on course to do an accelerated apprenticeship – one year.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I could be done . . . in a _year_?” she asked incredulously, staring at the paper in her hands.

“Let’s not put the cart before the horse,” Minerva interjected. “You need to know _exactly_ what that would involve,” she said as she nodded for Severus to continue.

“Early next summer, you would sit the practical examination. That would entail identifying various ingredients or perhaps a handful of prepared potions, and brewing several potions in the presence of a couple of guild members – those portions of the exam would be timed. But in addition to all that, you would have to create an original potion – or build substantially on an existing one – test it, write it up, present it to the guild board, and have it accepted for publication in one of the professional journals within three months following the examination. That project would essentially be what you’d be working on over the course of the school year as I put you through your paces.”

Hermione sat very still, hanging on every word.

“Most students need the two full years to do this,” he paused, a glint in his eye, “but I think you can do it in one.”

Minerva looked at the pair of them and became alarmed. Hermione was absolutely mesmerized, although the headmistress wasn’t certain whether it was from the thought of doing an apprenticeship in only a year or living up to Severus’s high expectations. Either way, it worried her.

“Hermione,” Minerva said sharply, breaking the trance. “This isn’t something to be decided lightly. It’s going to be a lot of work – a _lot_ of work.”

Under Minerva’s hard stare, Severus cleared his throat. “She’s quite right, Hermione – you need to think very carefully about this.”

“If . . . if I try to do it in one year and I don’t manage to produce the potion, or it doesn’t work quite right, or . . . or if the board doesn’t like it . . . or I can’t get it published . . . .” Hermione was starting to work herself up over the variables.

Severus held up his hand. “If any of that were to happen, you would simply submit again in a year’s time,” he assured her smoothly.

But Hermione knew it wasn’t _quite_ that straight forward and immediately leapt to what he _wasn’t_ saying, which was that some – or perhaps _many_ – in the potions world would look askance at her overweening ambition to do an apprenticeship in one instead of the usual two years. If she tried and failed, everyone would know, and probably few would ever let her forget. It wouldn’t reflect well on her . . . or on _him_. She unconsciously started to worry her bottom lip.

“There is no need to make a decision right now,” Minerva offered helpfully. “You should take a few days and consider your options. Whatever you decide, you still need to take your NEWTs in August, so you should develop a study plan. I’d be happy to help with that, as would Severus, I’m sure, and any of the other faculty who are still here. Neville also has to sit his exams, and you two could revise together.” Severus nodded in agreement.

Hermione sat quietly for a moment. “Yes – I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“Right. Now that we’ve gone over all of that, if you would excuse us, I need to talk with Severus about some related matters.”

Severus’s ears pricked up at that and he looked at her suspiciously as Hermione drank the last of her tea and thanked Minerva again for the hospitality – a quick glance in his direction and she was gone, off, he had no doubt, to continue helping with the clearing up. _Fuck_. It was unlikely he’d have any private time with her until much, much later.

Minerva _Accioed_ the coffee and poured him another cup, then sent the pot back to the sideboard.

“Just say it, Minerva,” he snarled, ignoring the mug she pushed in his direction, “whatever it is that is going to piss me off, just _say_ it.”

“We need to talk about your living arrangements.”

“No we bloody well _don’t_!” he sputtered forcefully, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“You two _cannot_ share quarters during the school year – surely you must realize that?” she asked, looking at him sternly.

He didn’t respond, but his eyes flashed a warning that she chose to ignore.   

“The Board of Governors would have a fit, not to mention the parents when they found out, and believe me,” she held up a hand to keep him from interrupting, “they _would_ hear about it. If I were a betting woman, I’d say it would take less than a couple of days.”

“It’s none of their fucking business,” he hissed.

“You know as well as I do that they would _make_ it their business,” she replied sharply. “Many still do not trust you and would delight in embarrassing you – or worse.”

He clenched his jaw to keep from completely losing his temper.

“It’s grossly unfair to be sure, but we _both_ know that the situation would escalate quickly into something very nasty indeed. And just think of the attention it would draw to Hermione – do you really want to expose her to that kind of derision as she is trying to do an accelerated apprenticeship?”

He sat back in the chair, crossed his arms, and fumed. This was exactly what he had been expecting. _Fucking Merlin’s balls_. He just knew it was too good to last, just _knew_ that someone would get their knickers in a twist over the fact that he, Severus Snape, was at long last getting regularly shagged and would do everything in their power to issue an order to cease and desist.

Minerva interrupted his thoughts. “Can you honestly tell me that you haven’t noticed the looks you are both already getting from the students who are helping out this summer?”

Oh yes, he had seen it – the brief encounter the previous day was just a mild taste of what they would certainly be facing.  

“What do you suggest?” he reluctantly bit out.

“Allotting Hermione rooms on the faculty floor.”

He threw his head back in frustration – they were about as far away from the dungeons as they could get.

“There is no alternative, and you know it,” she responded evenly. “It’s where Neville will be housed as well. If it makes any difference she will be accorded the same privileges as the rest of the faculty, which means she will be able to floo anywhere in the castle.”

“Anywhere?” he asked suspiciously, cocking an eye at her.

“Yes,” she grudgingly replied in a clipped tone. “That said, you will need to keep things professional in public – no first names, no holding hands or endearments . . . .”

“Please,” he interrupted, “I may _vomit_.”

“In case you have forgotten, you gave her a quite scorcher right in the center of the courtyard only a few weeks ago, in front of everyone – we _don’t_ need a repeat of that.”

“I wasn’t _myself_ , being rather _dumbfounded_ at having remarkably survived,” he sneered defensively.

“As I’ve told the students who witnessed it. But there is also something else.”

“Isn’t there bloody _always_?” he asked sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest. She stared at him, clearly struggling with how to broach the next subject, but he already had a fair idea of what was troubling her. “You don’t approve of your prized protégé _slumming_ it with the likes of me,” he bit out.

Minerva sighed exasperatedly, sitting back with her cup. “Severus, you know that _isn’t_ the issue, here.”

“ _Do I?_ ” he immediately volleyed, his voice tight with anger. “Then what _is_ the issue, because there clearly seems to be one.”

He wanted her to be blunt and she obliged. “She’s nineteen – she came of age during wartime and has never had a carefree moment in the whole of her adolescence. Leaping from that into an adult relationship is . . . is . . . .”

“ _Indecent_?” he offered acerbically as she searched for the right word.

“. . . _premature_ , perhaps?” she chose instead, sipping her tea.

Severus looked away, unwilling to have her guess just how much the subject had been on his own mind.

“Things between you progressed rapidly, which is understandable given the circumstances. All I’m suggesting is that this is an opportunity for her to experience a bit of . . . of . . . _life_ before embarking on a full-fledged relationship.”

“By _life_ , you mean you want me to encourage her to see other men,” he said accusingly, glaring at her.

“If that’s what she wants to do,” she responded calmly, studying him over the rim of her cup.

“You don’t think it’s possible that she already _knows_ what she wants?” he asked, trying not to sound as tentative as he actually felt. He laid out his best argument. “Apart from Victor Krum and Mr. Weasely, have you ever seen her exhibit the slightest interest in boys her own age? Did you know she dropped Krum because all he was really interested in was a quick one in the rose garden the night of the Yule Ball? And as for Weasley, she told me herself that the two of them had both decided that they just wanted to be friends. That’s been the extent of her interest in the opposite sex.”

“You are rather making my point for me, aren’t you, Severus?” she asked quietly. He looked and felt as if he had been slapped. Minerva continued. “She needs to experience the world _outside_ these walls so that she can make informed decisions about what she really wants to do with her life, and what she wants from a life-partner.”

Severus rubbed his hand back and forth across his mouth, trying but failing to push away what had been gnawing on the edge of his own mind ever since his recovery.

“In case you don’t remember, life _outside_ these walls damn near killed her,” he muttered, feebly clutching at straws.

“I was speaking metaphorically,” she gently reproved. “It’s cliché, I know,” she went on, “but you have to let her go if you expect her to want to stay with you. It will be better if she sees what the world holds on offer for her _now_ , than for her to regret later not having had the opportunity to do so in the first place. If that happened, it would be heartbreaking for her – and it would absolutely destroy _you_ , Severus, and you know it.”

And there it was in the full light of day – his fear had now been spoken aloud. The weight, the very _truth_ of it was more crushing than anything the Dark Lord had ever done to him. He felt sick, his hands were clammy and his breathing had shallowed as he desperately tried to control himself. What was it he had told her parents less than forty-eight hours before? That she had loved them enough to risk letting them go. But he wasn’t sure he could follow Hermione’s example.

“You don’t want her to do an apprenticeship with me,” he stated more than asked, barely audible.

“Actually, I think an apprenticeship is an excellent idea,” she responded calmly, pouring another cup of tea.

He looked at her in disbelief.  

“Hermione undoubtedly would have gone on to some kind of professional training if she had been able to complete her seventh year – she’s always had a strong interest and aptitude for potions, so I would have supported that decision. And naturally, as her academic advisor, I would also have encouraged her to study with someone who was at the top of the profession, and in those circumstances, that person would unquestionably have been _you_.”

“But . . . ,” he began.

“Severus,” she sighed patiently, “I fully support her decision to apprentice with you, and I have no real objections to the pair of you being together, but you can’t live openly with each other, not here at school. And for what it’s worth, I think it would be good – for _both_ of you as it happens – to have the mental and emotional space this year to find out who you two now are and what you want out of life.”

“You mean you want _her_ to have the space to see other men,” he said sourly.

“Don’t be obtuse, Severus,” Minerva chided irritably, abruptly getting up and wandering over to the open window. For a man who had suffered and sacrificed so much, who was perceptive, shrewd, and cunning in so many things, who understood basic human nature better than anyone else she knew, whose bravery was beyond comprehension and whose talents bordered on genius, his bouts of short-sightedness and lack of self-esteem were simply breathtaking. It had been thus even when he had been her student twenty-five years before. He just couldn’t see that if he held on too tightly, if he didn’t trust her to explore the world around her, he would certainly lose her. She turned and spoke sharply.

“You are thinking like a schoolboy – think like the man I know you want to _be_.”

_You have to let her go if you expect her to want to stay with you._

Minerva’s words echoed in his ears as he left her office. Passing an open window and hearing Hermione’s voice, he stopped to look down into the courtyard. She was issuing instructions to a group of students who followed behind floating barrels of debris. Already her clothes were dirty and her hair blew wildly around her – it would take multiple spells later to bring it back under control. She had clearly taken charge and was supervising the task of sorting the material into the appropriate rubbish piles. When the containers were finally empty, she turned and glanced upwards. Seeing him in the window, she gave him a bit of a wave and a winning smile.

 _Fuck_.


	3. Neville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione does exactly as Severus asks - and he's not at all happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week's chapter title - Madam Pomfrey. Do let me know if you like this - it helps keep me writing!

**Neville**

Severus wandered the halls, ostensibly checking on the progress of repairs but in reality delaying his return to the dungeons for as long as possible. Hermione wouldn’t be there until lunch time, and he had no desire to sit there brooding as he waited for her return. No, he’d rather stay above ground for now.

He ran through his options as he walked – there were only two. He could be the selfish bastard he had always been and continue on as they were – he had no doubt that he could manipulate her into staying – but at the same time he couldn’t bear contemplating the possibility that she might later regret a decision made when she was too young and inexperienced to know what her choices were. She had a highly developed sense of loyalty – she would stick with him regardless of whatever happened in the future – but he didn’t want her to remain out of some sense of obligation. His dignity would never permit that and ultimately, his love for her wouldn’t allow it either – whatever else he was, he most certainly _wasn’t_ his prick of a father. He had always had the courage – and _luck_ – of a seasoned gambler. Maybe his luck would hold out but even if it didn’t, he knew he really didn’t have a choice. It would have to be number two.            

Hermione blithely accepted the news that she would have her own rooms.

“I mean, I know that some apprentices do live with their masters – maybe not all of them _sleep_ together,” she hastily added humorously, “but given that this is a school, I just assumed I’d have my own rooms, probably somewhere near Neville. He has the most _spectacular_ view of the grounds and country side from his study!” she exclaimed.

Severus scowled. Until recently, the only view from his study that _he_ had been concerned about was the one of her naked in his bedroom beyond. But he had no idea when – or even _if_ – that might happen again.

“Hermione,” he started, but was almost immediately interrupted.

“Neville says he is hooked up with the floo network, which means we can go back and forth without any trouble,” she observed.

“Hermione,” he began again.

“We’ll have to be circumspect in public, of course, but we both have work to do – you with your classes, me with the apprenticeship – and I don’t think either of us is really the lovey dovey sort,” she barreled onwards.

“Miss Granger!” he finally barked, and at long last he had her full attention. He pinched his nose as she stared at him expectantly. “We . . . need to talk,” he said softly.

The silence was prolonged – and _deafening_.

“We . . . _need to talk?_ ” she repeated, carefully enunciating each word with a catch in her voice. “About . . . _what?_ ” she asked hesitantly.

He could see the trepidation in her eyes. “Let’s sit,” he suggested, gesturing to the small, leather sofa in front of the hearth.

“Let’s _not_ ,” she said, with just a hint of steel in her voice. She steadied herself, threw back her shoulders, and stuck out her chin. “You’re . . . you’re breaking _up_ with me?” she asked as evenly as she could manage while on the verge of tears.

Merlin, that Gryffindor courage of hers was breathtaking. He reached for her elbow to guide her over to the sofa, but she yanked her arm away, as if his hand had scorched her.  

“ _Please_ ,” he said, uttering the one word he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.  

She sat stiffly upright on the edge of the sofa cushion, her knees firmly together and her hands clenched in her lap as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.  

“Well?” she demanded, her voice tight with emotion.

His massaged his furrowed brow. Finally, he turned to her, trying – and failing – to pry a hand from her lap.

“I think you should take some time to . . . to . . . to get your _bearings_ ,” he said obliquely.

She heard him speak, saw his lips move, but had no idea what he was talking about. “ _What_?” she asked, confusion writ large across her face.

He stood abruptly, going to the hearth and leaning against it, unable to look at her and thus reveal how much this was ripping him apart.  

“I . . . I don’t want you to stay with me out of some sense of . . . of . . . _obligation_ ,” he finally just blurted out.  

“You think I don’t know what I _want_?” she responded incredulously, finally comprehending what he was trying to do.

“I think,” he began sharply, but caught himself and started again, speaking more carefully. “I think you have spent the last several years desperately fighting a war that you should never have been caught up in. You are nineteen and I don’t think you can possibly know just how bright a future you now have,” he finally managed, finally turning to look her firmly in the eye.

Hermione set her jaw stubbornly. “What I _want_ is you. What I _want_ is this apprenticeship,” she insisted emphatically.

“And what do you want to do once you have your masters?” he asked. When she didn’t immediately respond, he speculated on her behalf. “With that kind of a credential you could carry out advanced research – for the Ministry, St. Mungo’s, a company specializing in potions . . . Merlin, you could establish your own lab and business, for that matter.”

“I could also teach,” she quickly added.

He gave her a dismissive look. “You would be _wasted_. With your skills . . . .”

“And what about you?” she interrupted, standing up and facing him, her hands on her hips. “What do _you_ want to do?”

“What do you mean?” he replied, rather taken aback by her question.

“You, _too_ , have a bright future,” she challenged.

He flicked his hand as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

“After serving two masters for longer than was ever decent, you are finally free to do whatever _you_ want. So tell me, Severus – what do _you_ want to do?” He looked away. “You, too, could do advanced research. I know you’re interested,” she pressed, “otherwise you wouldn’t have developed that nerve regeneration potion.”

“I worked on the potion for reasons of self-preservation,” he ground out.

“Perhaps initially,” she said knowingly, “but you wouldn’t have then taken the trouble to stake out your proprietary claim in _Potioneer’s Quarterly_ if it wasn’t also somewhere in the back of your mind that you might do more with it at some point in the future.”

“We were talking about you,” he said firmly.

“I thought we were actually talking about _us_ ,” she replied defiantly. His lips settled into a thin line. She squared her shoulders once more and asked her question again. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“No,” he said, softly after a long pause, “but this coming year, I want you to . . . .” Merlin, was he _ever_ going to be able to say it out loud? “I want you to . . . _explore your options_.”

Her mouth opened slightly in surprise. Then she closed it and frowned. “You want me to see other people, is that it?” she asked harshly. He flinched.

“No,” he readily admitted, sourly, “but I need you to be absolutely certain that you want to be with me, and it strikes me that the only way you can know that is to . . . to _experience a bit of the world_.”

She arched a brow and he continued.

“In case you’ve never noticed, I am a fairly single minded individual and I take commitments seriously. Once you are well and truly mine . . . I won’t share you . . . and I _won’t_ let you go.”

“What makes you think you would have to?” she quickly countered. “And for the record, I am _not_ a possession!” she added, more than a little indignant

He narrowed his eyes.

“Let me make something _quite_ clear,” he replied in a low, almost menacing voice. “If we make promises to each other, whatever form such things might take – even if it’s just to live together – then you are _mine_ and I am _yours._ It works both ways,” he explained with steely resolution.

She took a moment for all of this to sink in. “But for right now, you want me to see other men,” she stated, “is that right?”

“Yes . . . if that is what you want,” he hedged, his eyes darkening just thinking about the prospect of other men . . . _touching_ her.

“And if I don’t _want_ to see other men?” she asked, her ire rising.    

He clenched his jaw. “That, too, is ultimately your decision,” he said firmly.

“And you would be free to see other women,” she stated rather than asked.

“I don’t really see that happening,” he bit out.

“As you say, it has to work both ways,” she pushed. “And at the end of this academic year, we decide what we want to do, personally, professionally?”

“Yes, that’s . . . that’s how I envision things proceeding.” He studied her intently as she thought it over.

“Will we still see each other?” she asked, her eyes glinting.

“I think we’ll rather have to if I’m going to direct your apprenticeship,” he said sarcastically.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she snapped.

He looked her up and down. She was furious with him, her anger only barely controlled, but even in that state . . . Merlin, he wanted her than he had ever wanted anything else in his life, and that included Lily, who really had only been a fantasy. If he had to wait for her while she . . . _tested the waters_ , then fucking hell he’d do it.

“I think that it would be good to spend time with each other outside our work, get to know each other better, but it would be counter-productive to . . . to . . . .”

“Fuck each other?” she crudely filled in for him. Her scowl would have done his own face proud. “Do we tell each other about the people we see?” she continued brutally. “Do we tell each other if we kiss them or only if we have sex with them?”

Merlin she was relentless. He felt as if she had slapped him, which was what he knew she was aiming for – she was trying to provoke him.

“Whatever you want to do,” he said smoothly, irritating her further.   

“This . . . _arrangement_ ,” she gestured crossly between them with her hand, “is most certainly _not_ what I want. But if you’re going to insist on it, then then you have to promise _me_ something.”

“What?” he asked hesitantly.

“That you think about what you want – and I mean _really_ want – to do with the rest of _your_ life.”

He said nothing, but after a moment curtly nodded once.

She turned on her heel to leave, but paused at the door, looking back at him. “And for the record,” she fired boldly, “I’m still going to be here at the end of the year.” With that, she left, not quite slamming the door, but certainly closing it with attitude.

Hermione moved her things into her new rooms that afternoon, an action taken when she knew he would be busy at one of Minerva’s meetings with the magical contractors – she really didn’t think she could resist the temptation to start throwing things if he had been there while she packed. With the headmistress’s prior permission, she appropriated a few items in school storage – not everything had gone up in the fire – and transfigured some of the furniture, making her new rooms more comfortable and homey.

He was unprepared for the emptiness he felt when he returned that afternoon and saw that she had cleared out her belongings. The only thing that kept him from slipping into a paroxysm of despair was seeing that she had left a budvase on the mantle with a single sprig of forget-me-not, the symbol of enduring love and a defiant expression that she _would_ be back. She had also left a note, which he quickly opened. “ _Dinner – my rooms. 6:30. No excuses_.” His mouth twitched – he had something to look forward to. 

He stepped out of her fireplace at 6:31 – he didn’t want to seem _overeager_ – and found that he was in what could have been a photo spread from _Witches Home Weekly_. The walls were a soft butter-cream and the room was warm and filled with early evening sunlight. The two large, over-stuffed chairs by the hearth were covered in a dusky-rose colored floral chintz that matched the curtains at the windows. It all rather took him by surprise – he had expected it to be the usual Hogwarts student’s room, but this reflected her own, personal tastes. It was more feminine than he would have imagined, given her tom-boyish ways, but he didn’t complain – it felt warm, inviting, comforting, even. Their greeting was initially awkward until she resolutely reached up and pecked him on the cheek. It was, she explained, no less a greeting than she would have given Harry or Ron. He touched the place on his face where her lips had been and fought back the urge to grab her and plant – what had Minerva called it? – a _scorcher_ on her lips.

Dinner was nothing fancy, just soup that the house elves had whipped up, but siting with her at the table, going over their day’s activities – at first stiltedly, then more easily – and relaxing afterward in her comfortable chairs over a whiskey she had finagled, made the day’s events a bit easier to bear. She gave him another quick kiss before he flooed back to the dungeon at the end of the evening.

It was the hardest night he had spent since before the war, and he found two more items Hermione had left to signal her opinion about their new arrangements – her toothbrush on his bathroom sink, and a red sweater hanging in his wardrobe, bold against the black and white palate of his clothes. He pulled the garment from its hanger and brought it to his face. It was soft, like her hair, and smelled distinctly of her. That night, he slept with it on the pillow next to him.

The summer days rolled on, and didn’t seem all that different than from before the _conversation_ , as Hermione had taken to referring to it, except that they weren’t stealing back to the dungeons for an hour in the afternoon. They typically had breakfast and dinner with each other, and then spent some part of most days preparing for the guild’s general knowledge exam. He laid out a program of revision for her and Neville for the potion section of their NEWTs, Minerva and Flitwick made suggestions for transfiguration and charms, and Pamona took them both in hand for herbology. The would-be apprentices preferred to study in the evenings, and he made sure he was long gone before they got started. So far, he had managed not to run into his former student, and he was intent on keeping it that way – the last thing he wanted to do was chat with the dim-witted phenomenon. How Hermione had had the patience to work with him over the years was beyond his ken.

In the fourth week of their new arrangement they went over plans for the new potions garden, since the old one had been destroyed. She would be expected to keep one after she was accredited, so having her help design and tend it was a sensible move, that and the fact that she seemed quite eager to do some gardening. The weather had turned sunny and hot and she had dressed accordingly – shorts, tank-top, and straw hat. He fully approved.

“You should change before we go out,” she advised, rolling up the plans as she stood waiting by the door.

He scoffed.  

“It’s hotter than blazes this morning, and you’ll suffocate in that, even with a cooling charm,” she observed. “Or was it the case that when you said _we_ would be gardening, you really meant that _I_ would be toiling in the earth as you sit in the shade and drink lemonade?”

He merely harrumphed in response, shooing her along into the corridor as he admired the view. As they worked their way up from the dungeons, however, Severus began to wonder if he should have taken her advice. By the time they actually got to the gardens, he was starting to perspire. He cast a discreet cooling charm, knowing at the same time that it would have a very short life wearing so many clothes in temperatures this warm.

Sprout was setting out the things they needed, while a shirtless young man with his back to them worked the soil of an empty plot. “Say Nev – come give us a hand,” his colleague called over her shoulder.

Severus momentarily forgot the heat and the sun as he began to experience a completely different kind of discomfort. The tall young man turned around, exposing a significant expanse of tanned and muscled flesh. He sported a few days beard growth as well as a mat of manly hair across his chest that tapered to his navel and then widened again before disappearing below the band of his alarmingly low-slung trousers. And as if this wasn’t enough, he flashed a disarmingly impish smile that damned near blinded him.

Severus momentarily wondered if he was experiencing heat stroke because it was none other than _Neville fucking Longbottom_. Not the hunched-over, slightly pudgy buck-toothed-wonder he had been when last in his class, but a perfectly proportioned golden Adonis. Pamona and Hermione both seemed completely unaffected by his divine presence, but a gnome could have knocked him over.  

“Professor,” Neville grinned in greeting, standing nose to nose with him as he extended his hand.

Since when did Longbottom get to look him quite literally straight in the eye? “Mr. Longbottom,” Severus managed instead, gulping hard and briefly taking the young man’s hand while trying to look unsurprised at the marked change his former student had undergone in the last year. Had he really been so distracted as headmaster that he had never noticed it?

When Hermione joined them, Neville picked up a flat of plants from the potting table and held them aloft for her inspection. As he ran through the different samples, noting their Latin as well common names, outlining their qualities, and making suggestions about their care, Severus was struck dumb once more. Where had that confidence and knowledge come from? Who _was_ this young man? And then another question hit him – was this the reason Hermione was so interested in gardening? His mind wandered further – Neville and Hermione were spending their evenings together . . . _studying_. He ran a finger around the top of his shirt, tugging against the cravat. He was certain it was getting warmer, and he cast another cooling spell.

Neville handed off the plants to Hermione and picked up another flat as they followed Pamona over to the prepared bed.

“Could you bring the gloves and trowels, professor?” he asked, nodding at the gardening tools on the table. Severus scowled, but collected them anyway and drifted over to where they were going to be working. He set them down as Pamona informed him that a proper greenhouse would eventually be built over and around the plot when the weather turned in the fall, but that she didn’t think he would want to wait until then to get started. Severus nodded in agreement, the slight motion making him feel a bit woozy.

As Neville knelt down to show Hermione the correct way to plant the starters, Severus got a good look at the upper part of the budding herbologist’s unreasonably firm buttocks. A scathing comment was on the tip of his tongue but his mouth suddenly felt dry and all he could manage was a bit of a croak. Then he started to sway. Hermione looked up at him with a curious expression – she seemed to be calling his name, but it was as if from a great distance and he could barely hear her.

Neville and Pamona turned just in time to see him go over backwards, his arms outstretched making small circles in the air as he tried to catch himself. He sank into the soft, freshly turned, sun-warmed soil with a resounding _plop_ as a cloud of dust squirted out from around his prone body. Hermione and Neville quickly appeared on either side of him, their faces floating above his, mercifully blocking out the sun. Pamona had the good sense to cast another cooling spell, which helped bring him around. He felt a pair of strong arms assist him into a sitting position and was chagrined to find that they weren’t Hermione’s – he brushed Neville’s hands away.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine now,” he said, irritated and embarrassed at his situation. He struggled to his feet.

“You should have changed,” the know-it-all whispered to him as she tried to brush the dust from his clothes. He glared in response.

“I will leave you to it, then,” he glared at the lot of them, his dignity bruised and his back and arse covered in dirt. He staggered a bit but managed to navigate under his own power. By the time he reached the dungeons he had pulled off his cravat and coat – they were unceremoniously thrown to the floor of the bedroom. His shirt was soaked through and clung to his frame. He had heard chatter from older female students about men and a wet shirt look, and he decided to check into this concept for himself in front of the standing mirror. After some consideration, he concluded that it wasn’t a fashion he could see himself adopting anytime soon. He pulled the damp shirt over his head and let it fall, and then quickly decided that the shirtless look was also something he needed to avoid. He was certainly well-toned, but he would never be brawny, and the scars were not something he wanted to parade around, not to mention the fact that he would probably blister at the mere mention of the sun.

As he stared at his pale reflection, he continued to think about Longbottom. His eyes followed the smattering of black hair on his own chest down to the top of his belt. He toed off his boots and quickly slipped out of his trousers. He stood in his underwear, turning sideways to look at his arse, but he needed a better view, so the pants joined the rest of his clothes at his feet. His backside was compact and proportional to the rest of him, but also tight, with hollows on the sides of his cheeks. He had no experience with these kinds of things, but it seemed on par with his former student’s. As for his legs, well, he was always rather proud of them – long and sinewy. All in all, he concluded that he compared rather favorably to his former student.

He continued to stare at his reflection and grimaced. _Fuck_. Who was he kidding? There was absolutely _no_ comparison _whatsoever_ between him and _bloody fucking_ Neville Longbottom. The only thing he could console himself with as far as his former student was concerned was that he knew at least a dozen or so obscure plants from the Amazon that could kill a man – or a herbology apprentice – just by brushing up against them, and not even Pamona would be the wiser. 

He petulantly kicked his clothes out of the way as he headed into the bathroom, wondering fleetingly if Longbottom wore a shirt when he and Hermione studied together. He knew he shouldn’t go there, but he couldn’t help himself.

That evening, as Hermione nattered on over dinner about all the progress they had made on the potions garden that afternoon, he wondered if perhaps he should stick around to supervise their studying. As she began to clear the table, he helped himself to a tumbler of whiskey, pulled out a copy of _The Prophet_ from his pocket, and settled into what he was coming to consider his chair next to the hearth. The floo activated a few moments later and Longbottom’s voice burst forth, asking if he could come through. Hermione absently called for him to come in as she took the last of the dishes into the small, galley kitchen. The young man stepped through the floo – he was now fully clothed but still looked for all intents and purposes as though he made his living as a male model, even with his untucked shirt and worn sandals. The nascent herbologist waited for Severus to move his outstretch legs, but he sat there, swirling his drink and glowering at his former student as he held the newspaper in his other hand. Neville swallowed nervously and then stepped over his professor’s limbs, heading for the table with his books. As he was laying them out, he leaned towards Hermione, who was setting out her own study materials.

“Professor Snape’s not going to stay, is he?” he whispered with some alarm, casting an anxious glance in his direction. 

Hermione sighed in exasperation, having watched Severus’s pointed display. In four steps she was next to the chair, hands on hips expectantly. He gave no indication that he was planning to leave, so she abruptly reached for his glass and pulled it from his hand, nodding in the direction of the hearth. He scowled in response, but under the weight of her glare he carefully folded his paper, got up, and reached for the floo powder – with one last sneer in Longbottom’s direction, he threw it in and disappeared into the fireplace.

An hour later and the table was covered with open books and sheaths of paper full of scribbled notes. “So, what’s up with you and Professor Snape?” Neville commented casually, leaning back in his chair and sipping his tea as they took a break from their studying.

Hermione choked a bit.

“I generally don’t listen to rumors,” he went on, “but you seemed really concerned about him this afternoon, and he looked pretty comfortable when I came in.”

“What have you heard?” she asked, eyeing him, a bit worried about how detailed the rumors might already be.

“That you saved his life.” He paused, taking another sip from his mug.

“And?” she asked expectantly.

“Well, I’ve heard tell of a passionate snog in the courtyard in broad daylight after you saved him, which under the circumstances I suppose seems reasonable – even Snape had to be glad he survived – but I’ve also heard that you two have been . . . um . . . _close_ ever since. Personally,” he said, pulling a face, “I can’t imagine it, at least the _close_ part, anyway.”

Hermione took a deep breath and hung her head.

Realization dawned slowly and his chair fell back into place with a bounce. “Oh dear Merlin – it’s _true_ , isn’t it?!” he said with some surprise.

“You do realize that he’s _not_ what everyone thought he was,” she began her defense.

“Yeah, I know all about him working for the Order of the Phoenix, but he was such a git as our professor,” he commented, “surely he hasn’t changed _that_ much.”

“He’s still snarky,” she began, “and sarcastic, rude, snide, imperious . . . .”

“All the qualities that attract smart women,” he interjected.

She jabbed his shoulder playfully. “But he’s also brilliant, has a sharp ironic sense of humor, is passionate, loyal, playful . . . .”

Neville put up a hand to stop her. “No, no, no, no, no! I don’t need to hear that part!” he laughed, but quickly sobered at the look on Hermione’s face. “If it’s true, then why aren’t you . . . _you know_ ,” he said, gesturing with his hand and blushing slightly.

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Why are you living up here while he’s down in the dungeons?”

She put her mug down and leaned forward, picking up her quill and doodling. “He’s got this idea that I’m too young to truly know what it is I want, personally and professionally. He wants me to . . . to . . . _explore my options_ was how he put it – over the course of this coming school year.”

“Explore your options?” he asked uncomprehendingly.  

“He wants me to kiss a few frogs to make sure I’ve got the right prince,” she said rather dejectedly.

“Blimey.” The two of them sat quietly for a few moments before Neville broke the silence. “Is that what _you_ want?” 

Her brow furrowed as she considered his question. “Not especially. I mean,” she continued quickly, “I know why we’re doing it, and I guess I do think it’s a good idea in the _abstract_ , but I just can’t imagine feeling any different about him a year from now. I haven’t dated much . . . _any_ , really, but I think I know my own mind.”

Neville leaned forward to watch her finish her drawing. It was a tiny frog, and when she was done, it started to leap about on the parchment.

“What about you and Luna?” Hermione asked.

Neville looked down into his mug. “It’s sort of the same thing with you and Snape, actually – her father’s not too keen. She still has a year to go, and with me starting an apprenticeship with Sprout . . . we agreed to wait until we were both finished to see if we still felt the same way about each other.”

Hermione took some degree of comfort knowing that they were both in the same situation, and for a split second wondered what it would be like to kiss her friend. When her eyes met his across the table she had the curious feeling that he was thinking something similar. They both blushed and looked away, pulling their books and papers towards them to start reviewing the next chapter.

Breakfast the next morning was all business – Severus asked what the pair of them had covered the previous evening and then quizzed her on it, satisfying himself that they had indeed been studying. He didn’t give Longbottom a second thought all day, but his . . . _concern_ , he preferred to call it, was reignited over dinner.

“How is the work coming on the garden?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent.

“It’s coming along nicely. As a matter of fact, we’re going to be putting in the blue-lock thistle tonight. Luckily, it’s a full moon so I think we’ll have a good return on the planting,” she said matter-of-factly, trying not to sound as nervous as she was starting to feel about that evening’s work, given her thoughts about Neville the night before.

He nodded his head, acknowledging the information, but his thoughts had already pushed beyond hers and were firmly centered on the garden. In his mind’s eye, he could see Longbottom and Hermione in the moonlight, the young man’s strong arms pulling her to his tanned and muscled chest, preparing to carry out a completely _different_ kind of planting.

They said goodnight as usual, with her reaching up to kiss his cheek. He went back to his quarters, poured himself a whiskey and sat down with a book, trying _not_ to think about blue-lock thistle. When he tired of reading – or rather when he tired of thinking about all the potions that used that particular ingredient – he wandered into the lab to check on a few things, make sure that everything he needed for brewing potions for the infirmary the next day was all in order. He idly opened a cabinet to check on his store of . . . blue-lock thistle. _Bugger_.

Back in the study he sat down at his desk and tidied it a bit, going through the drawers and cleaning them out. When midnight came, he was in his small kitchen, taking stock of what foodstuffs he had and what he should get in. He was still wide awake, still in his clothes, and still working himself up over that night’s gardening activities, turning it over and over in his mind. Surely seeing them working in the garden would be more bearable than what he was imagining, he thought. Decision made, he bolted out the door.

He heard them laughing even before he reached Pamona’s office. From the windows in the dark corridor, he had a good view of the greenhouses and the new potions garden in the light of the full moon. It was clear that they were just finishing up. Hermione pulled off her gloves and handed them to Longbottom, who put them on top of the empty flat along with their trowels. When he had secured them in the shed, he came back to stand next to her, admiring their handiwork – a nice neat row of blue-lock thistle.

“Lovely evening to be doing this,” Hermione observed, breathing in deeply and savoring the night air.

“Certainly it beats doing it in the heat of the day,” he agreed, his eyes lingering on her face. She felt him looking at her and hoped he couldn’t see the blush working its way up her neck to her face. He reached over and rubbed away a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Again, she wondered what kissing him would be like, and he seemed to be thinking along similar lines. She turned towards him as he leaned down and hesitantly pressed his lips to hers.

Hermione immediately noted that they were full, fuller than Severus’s, and the kiss as a whole was warm and gentle, lacking the urgency and insistence that she had grown used to. She put a hand on his chest as he slipped an arm tentatively around her waist – he was more filled out than Severus, too, and he didn’t pull her fully into the embrace as her lover would have done. The whole encounter was rather . . . _chaste_ , all in all.

Severus didn’t quite see it that way. He stood stock still, hardly breathing, as a range of emotions fought fiercely for dominance – rage, disappointment, heart-ache, jealousy, and yet more rage. He pulled away from the window and strode swiftly away, his heart racing and his breathing labored.

As she withdrew, Hermione caught sight of motion in the corner of her eye. Turning slightly, she could see something flowing past the windows. She instantly knew what, or rather _who_ it was. Well, this was his idea, not hers, not that kissing Neville had turned out to be anything more than just . . . _odd_ and more than a little awkward. He had transitioned into an extraordinarily good looking and mostly confident young man, but he was most definitely _not_ her prince, and she was certainly not Luna.

When they pushed away from each other, they started to laugh. “Well, I guess we can cross each other off our respective lists,” she said, gripping his arms.

“All I can say,” Neville commented, “is that, if Snape is your prince – git though he is – he’d better treat you well.” And with that, he kissed her on the forehead like the friend he had always been.

“Thank you, Neville,” she replied, “and I wish you the best of luck with Luna.” They grinned at each other.  

They walked back to their rooms and hugged once more before saying good night. As she got ready for bed, she wondered if she should try and floo Severus, put his mind at ease. And then she decided against it. This had been his bloody idea, and if she had to live with it, so did he.


	4. Madam Pomfrey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Hermione and Severus face the consequences of Neville's kiss, though in very different ways. Madam Pomfrey lends them an ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying this - let me know! It helps keep me going! Next week's chapter title is "Ginny."

**Madam Pomfrey**

Hermione flooed Severus when she got up the next morning, but there was no answer, so she ate her breakfast alone – if he was going to sulk she’d just as soon he do it on his own time anyway. When she finished, she decided to walk to his quarters. His wards were up – as they always were – and she felt them shimmer, but when she tried the door handle, it wouldn’t budge. At first, she thought there was something wrong, but then she realized that he had changed them, no doubt the instant he got back the previous evening. She wrapped on the door and waited.

And then waited some more.

She knocked again, and after standing there a while longer, she heard the lock slide back and the door popped open. Seeing that he wasn’t in the study, she proceeded to the lab. The sight that greeted her made her gasp aloud. The room was an absolute wreck – vessels containing potions ingredients sat open everywhere, the sinks were stacked with cauldrons, cutting boards, knives and related implements, and vials, jars, and tins of different colors and sizes sat on the counters waiting to be labeled. He must have brewed all night.

She was about to make a comment, but he headed her off. “Wait,” he ordered without looking up as he continued ladling the potion he was working on into the dozen or so vials in front of him. His coat and cravat lay wadded in a corner of the lab and his sleeves were rolled all the way to his elbows. His hair was wild, as if his head had been over a cauldron for most of the night, which of course it clearly had been.  

“I thought you were going to wait and do the medical brewing today,” she commented when he finished ladling.

“It’s been _today_ for the last eight hours and more,” he observed acerbically as he stoppered all of the vials before quickly dipping the tops of them into a small cauldron of warm wax and then setting them aside to cool.

“This is a basic blood replenisher,” he began coolly, “and those over there . . . .” She followed his gaze as he rapidly rattled off the contents in the other groups of containers sitting around the room. “Label them and get them up to Madam Pomfrey,” he commanded, setting the last vial firmly on the table. “When you have completed that task, clear this mess away,” he sneered, as he retrieved his clothes from the floor. “Once you’ve _managed_ to do that, there is one more potion to do – it’s marked in the book on my desk.” He paused at the door, looking down his long nose at her. “It’s the contraceptive potion Pomfrey hands out to students – you may wish to avail yourself of it,” he snarled before sweeping from the room.

She stood there with her mouth agape as she listened to him make his way through the study – she physically jumped when the door to the corridor slammed. She had heard stories about masters treating their apprentices as though they were indentured servants, but she was shocked at his behavior, and she wasn’t even formally under his tutelage yet. She knew from experience that Severus was a _clean as you go_ brewer – he had always been quite insistent on that point right from the very beginning of her education – so this had nothing to do with her apprenticeship and everything to do with him having seen her and Neville kissing the night before.

She huffed indignantly. She could refuse to clean up after him – it _was_ an option – but knew that if she couldn’t take this fit of piqué she’d never survive when her apprenticeship actually started in earnest a few weeks hence. So she located the labels in a drawer and wrote them out in her neatest hand, securing them to the various containers. There was a box filled with cotton wadding next to the door that she assumed he used to transport the medical potions, and she loaded it up. It was heavy, and she decided to use the study floo rather than walk to the infirmary.

Madam Pomfrey was grateful to see the new supplies and Hermione helped her stock the infirmary’s shelves. Noting Hermione’s uncharacteristically subdued manner, she ventured a question.

“How’s Severus?”

“Fine,” Hermione replied in a clipped tone.  

Pomfrey arched a brow. “Trouble already?”

Hermione smiled wanly. “No, he’s just . . . just . . . .”

“Being _himself_?” Pomfrey offered, eying her knowingly and handing off the empty box.

She nodded and then paused. “We’ve decided – well, _he’s_ decided – that we should take things more . . . more _slowly_ ,” she finally confessed, looking away as she felt her cheeks starting to flush.

The mediwitch waited patiently, knowing there was still more to come.

“He says he wants me to . . . to _explore my options_ ” – she stumbled over the words – “in order to make certain of my feelings for him.”

“And you don’t think that’s a good idea?” Pomfrey gently inquired.

A moment passed. “I understand his concerns, even if I don’t share them. That said,” she paused before lowering her voice, “last night – when Neville and I were planting the blue-lock thistle . . . .” She looked around hesitantly, not that there was anyone around to hear. “Neville kissed me . . . or . . . I kissed him – I don’t really know, we just, we just _kissed_ ,” she said, throwing her hands up. “It was brief and awkward and we laughed about it afterwards, and we’ve absolutely _no_ intention of _ever_ doing it again,” she said emphatically, “but he saw us, he was in the shadows. He doesn’t know I saw him, and this morning he’s been completely vile. I mean, this was _his_ bloody idea!” she finished indignantly.

Pomfrey smiled affectionately. “Personally, my dear,” she said soothingly, “I think it shows great wisdom – and _remarkable_ emotional growth – on his part that he wants you to be free to have these . . . _experiences_ . . . if you want them,” she quickly qualified, looking at her young friend.  “ _Do_ you want them?”

“I . . . I really don’t know,” she said in a small voice. “I would never have even _thought_ of kissing Neville had he not put it into my head that I needed to . . . _look around_. The whole time it was happening I was thinking how different he was to Severus and I simply ended up being . . . well, hugely embarrassed and more than a little frustrated by the experience,” she admitted, ducking her head and blushing. “The only reason I agreed to this arrangement was so that he would give some serious consideration to what he is going to do with _his_ life now that he is free to make his own decisions. He has a future, too.”

“That also seems like a very sensible and mature thing to insist on,” she said, patting Hermione on the arm. “In the meantime, give him some latitude,” she continued earnestly. “This is going to be as hard for him as it is for you. Intellectually he knows this is the right course for the two of you, but emotionally it is going to challenge him mightily. Just keep the channels of communication open and keep in mind that he’s not going to shake off a lifetime of habits at a moment’s notice.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said thoughtfully, considering the mediwitch’s observation. After a moment, she sighed. “I should get back – I have a lot to do,” she said wistfully, heading for the hearth.

“Hermione?” Pomfrey called. The young woman turned. “If you ever need to talk . . . .”

The offer was genuine, and Hermione smiled her thanks before she flooed away.   

Her conversation with Pomfrey had been a bit of a balm to her indignation, although her annoyance returned when she got back to the lab and took in the enormous task in front of her. She pulled a pristine white apron from a drawer and set herself to work. She began by sorting through the open ingredients, stoppering the vials and putting lids on the jars and tins before resealing everything. At the same time, she started a list of those ingredients he had used up or seriously run down in making the potions. When she was done re-shelving, she went over the stainless steel table with a sanitizer of his own devising.

The cauldrons, cutting boards, knives, and empty potions vessels that filled the sinks all had to be scrubbed by hand since even cleaning spells could linger on the metal and adversely affect whatever he brewed next time. She laid out towels on the table and started with the smaller stuff. The last items to be washed were the cauldrons, but they presented a bit of a problem – two were severely dented and looked as though they had been thrown against something hard, like one of the lab’s stone walls, rather than accidentally dropped on the floor. They had to be fixed. She had repaired the cauldrons in her student’s brewing kit on numerous occasions, but these were infinitely more valuable than those, and she preferred to wait and see how he mended them for future reference.  

Finally, she took a mop from the utility closet and pushed it around the room, knowing that he insisted that even this mundane task to be performed manually. She was perspiring when she finished, but rewarded herself with a satisfied smirk, confident that he wouldn’t find anything wrong with the job she had just done. Her smile quickly faded, however, knowing that he could find fault with just about _anything_.

He had been sitting in the meeting, pouring over mounds of paperwork related to the school’s reconstruction, for nearly three hours and he had barely heard even a word, so occupied was he with the events of the previous evening. He hadn’t lingered at the window the night before – there had been no need. In a matter of seconds, the image of Neville and Hermione kissing had been forever seared into his mind, and he didn’t think he would ever be able to scrub it from his memory. Nothing around him had registered as he stormed towards his quarters, trying to put as much physical distance as he could between him and the nightmare playing out in the garden. Once back in the lab, he had unseeingly grabbed the nearest object and thrown it across the room – it was one of his best cauldrons, but he hadn’t cared. Instead, he had picked up another one and heaved it with such force that it had bounced back to him – he had then kicked it viciously. He couldn’t recall how long he had simply stood there, staring at the next day’s work laid out on the table, but before he had even formed the thought, his cravat and coat were in his hands and he had pitched them to a far corner of the room. Then he had rolled up his sleeves and got busy doing what he did best.

He had worked all night as his imagination expanded on what he had seen earlier. He pictured them going at it between the rows of blue lock thistle, in the repaired greenhouse nearby, and even across the table in Hermione’s room where they studied together. The images looped in his mind so that by morning he had worked himself up into a truly foul state. He had changed the wards during a lull in the brewing, reveling in the knowledge that Hermione would have to wait on his pleasure to be admitted. When the wards finally flickered, he told himself that he couldn’t interrupt the delicate process of ladling out the blood replenishing potion, but the truth was that he had simply wanted her to stand there until he was good and ready to let her in. He hadn’t even extended her the courtesy of looking up when she came into the lab, preferring to affect cool indifference instead. He had, though, taken a perverse pleasure in hearing her gasp at the condition of the room, knowing he was going to make her clean it all up. And it had certainly been a wreck. Not once had he ever allowed a lab of his get into such a state, not even in the middle of a major brewing project like this had been. Æthelbert Duggins, his old master, would never have allowed such a thing – “ _Clean as you go, my boy_ ,” he had taught him, “ _it shows respect for yourself and for the work you do_.” He had heard stories, of course, of potions masters treating their apprentices as virtual slaves when it came to such things, but that had not been his own experience, not with Duggins. Whatever mistakes he made when learning the profession – and he had made plenty of them despite his natural aptitude – he had never been on the receiving end of any abuse. Such behavior was beneath a true master like Duggins.

Now, as he sat in one of Minerva’s interminable meetings with ministry officials and contractors with the magical construction company, he was starting to feel distinctly . . . _uncomfortable_. It was one thing compelling students to clean up classroom equipment in order to teach them to treat it with some care, and quite another to have a young woman he professed to love scrub her fingers to the bone cleaning up a mess he had deliberately made simply because she had done what he had asked her to do.

As all of this played out in his mind, he started to shift around in his chair and fidget with the papers, clasping and unclasping his hands until Minerva simply couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Severus, do you have a _rash_?” she asked acerbically.

“No,” he responded, “but I do have something in my lab that needs _immediate_ attention, and since I don’t have the social skills necessary to mediate between arse fuckers on the one hand and arse kissers on the other, I will just leave you to get on with it.”

Minerva’s expression was stony, though whether from disgust at his crudity or envy that he was able to leave what really was a mind numbing meeting with arses, however they were categorized, he neither knew nor cared – he had amends to make.

Severus wasn’t sure what to expect when he returned to his quarters. Hermione might be curled up on his sofa sobbing, or she might be preparing to hex him every which way to Hades – he feared the former but fully expected the latter, knowing her as he did. In either case, she had good reason to be thoroughly pissed at him.

The lab door was open when he came in. As he quietly approached, he was stunned. Everything was spotless – he couldn’t have done a more thorough job himself. The ingredients necessary for the contraceptive potion were set out in an orderly fashion on the table, along with all the equipment that would be needed. Hermione was so engrossed in reviewing the brewing instructions that she didn’t notice him until his pale hand snaked across her vision and his long, slender fingers closed the book she was using and pulled it away from her. She looked up and saw remorse writ large across his face. He put his hands flat on either side of the text and leaned on the table, his eyes tightly closed. When he opened them she could see the shame reflected in them.   

“My behavior this morning was . . . _inexcusable_ ,” he began in a voice low enough to vibrate glass. “I was boorish and unreasonable. I want you to know that Duggins taught me better than that. It will _not_ happen again,” he said softly but firmly.

She reached out and placed a hand one of his – he grasped it and then looked down with a frown. He went around the table and stood in front of her, taking her other hand in his and scowling at it as well.

“Did you use a protection spell?” he asked, as he examined her chapped red hands.

“They don’t last long enough, not with hot water and long jobs,” Hermione informed him. “I really should get some Muggle gloves.”

He pulled away from her and went to a cabinet. Opening it, he scanned the shelf and pulled down a small squat jar. He unscrewed the lid, dipped a finger into the lotion, and began to rub it into her hands. They were so small in comparison to his, but just as capable, as he knew from experience. His thumbs ran lightly over the back of them as he pressed into her palms underneath. He worked each finger down to its nail, methodically rubbing the lotion into her skin. He was mesmerized by his task and acutely conscious of his physical response to touching her.

As she watched him gently massage her hands, she was suddenly aware of how aroused she was becoming. His fingers moved slowly and sensuously, and when she looked up, his eyes were glazed, as if his thoughts were on something else altogether. Her own lips parted reflexively as her breathing became more rapid – her heart was racing and her skin felt as if it was on fire.

“I know why you were upset,” she whispered, afraid to break the connection, but needing to deal with the matter between them. He stopped what he was doing and she felt him tense.

“It . . . it doesn’t matter,” he croaked, refusing to meet her eyes. “I shouldn’t have been there – wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t known you were going to plant . . . .”

“Severus,” she interrupted, “it was an action borne solely out of curiosity and nothing else. He and Luna have an agreement similar to ours. He’s a friend – a _good_ friend – but that’s _all_.”

At that, he raised his eyes and she looked at him imploringly. Freeing a hand, she slowly ran it up the front of his coat, but before she reached his face, he clutched and held it firmly to his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, struggling mightily to regain his self-control. He could end this now – it would be so easy to sweep her into his arms and take her straight to the bedroom. He took a deep breath, released it, and slowly raised his lids, looking at her intently.

“This is what I wanted you to do, what you _need_ to do,” he said hoarsely.

She sighed in resignation – he was not going to go back on their arrangement.

“Just remember what _you_ need to do for me,” she said quietly and without any trace of recrimination. He nodded in response and dropped her hands, stepping away from her and going to the other side of the table. He flipped the book open, found the marked page, and pushed it in her direction.

“Please continue with what you were doing. I will watch as you work to check your techniques,” he said, dragging over a stool and sitting carefully on its edge.

She took a cleansing breath and proceeded to prepare the potion. He quizzed her as she worked, testing her on such things as the potion’s potency, shelf life, and potential adverse effects. He made only one suggested change in the way she wielded her knife, and when she was done pronounced himself satisfied with the finished product. When she started to clean up, he waved her away.

“No – I will take care of this. Go and get some lunch.”

“What about you?” she quickly inquired.

“I’ll straighten up here and then get these to Madam Pomfrey. You don’t need to come back this afternoon – spend the time going over the potions text I gave you.”

“Will I see you for dinner?” she asked anxiously, taking off her apron and hanging it on the back of the door.

“Of course. Why don’t you see if Minerva and Longbottom can join us,” he suggested, trying to sound casual. “I need to find out what happened at the meeting I skipped out of and I’m sure the headmistress would like to know how you two are getting on with your NEWTs revisions.”

“Yes, what a good idea,” she responded, relieved that a degree of equilibrium had been restored between them. “Don’t be late,” she chided good naturedly.

“Am I ever?” he replied, giving her his best sneer. She grinned at him and left.

His lips twitched in response, but they quickly settled back into a frown as the lab door closed behind her. His behavior had been atrocious, and why she hadn’t hexed him or just simply walked out was beyond him. Certainly he would never have stood for such treatment. He would have to be careful about that in the future, would somehow have to learn to temper his hair-trigger response to things with more appropriate reactions.

When he finished cleaning up, he packed the potion securely in the box and, since it was such a fine day, decided to walk it to the infirmary. Because of the on-going construction, he had to take a circuitous route that went past the courtyard. He looked out on the scene from the cloistered walkway and spotted Hermione sitting with Neville and Sprout among the work crews, chatting amiably as everyone was finishing their lunch. His former student – shirtless once again, much to his chagrin – was refilling her and his mentor’s mugs. He grimaced. Yes, he would need to adjust his responses to things that merely _annoyed_ rather than actually threatened him. The war was over and things were different now.

Pomfrey was just finishing her own lunch when he arrived, and she invitingly poured him a cup of tea. He sat the box on the counter and joined her at her desk. She was smirking at him, and he felt the irritation in him growing. He was on the verge of sniping at her when he paused – what had he just decided about appropriate responses? He schooled his face and murmured his thanks, raising the mug to his lips.

“How are things with you, Severus?” she asked, leadingly.  

“Fine,” he replied without any inflection.

“I saw Hermione this morning.” When he didn’t bite, she continued. “She told me about your . . . _arrangement_.”

He carefully tailored his response. “I’m glad she has a woman she can confide in,” he lied, trying to stifle the immediate thought that if Hermione ever confided _too_ much in his colleague, he would have to cast a discreet _Obliviate_ , friends or no.

As if reading his thoughts, she grinned and decided to test his reserve further. “She also told me about what happened last night between her and Neville.”

Severus’s jaw tightened and he gripped the handle of his mug firmly before casually bringing it to his lips. That meant Hermione had told her what a _prat_ he had been about the whole business as well. He could feel the wand in its sheath, snug in his sleeve – he could do it now if he was quick about it. He shifted in his chair to disguise moving his right arm off the table and down to his side – his wand was instantly in his hand.

“Don’t you _dare_ try to _Obliviate_ me, young man!” she said in her best no-nonsense mediwitch voice – there was enough steel in her voice to make him reconsider. 

“Oh, alright, then,” he conceded with bad grace, banging his mug on the desk and shoving the wand back into its sheath. “As I’m sure you know, I behaved very badly and I’ve made my . . . my _apologies_ to Hermione,” he said, unable to meet her eye.

“Good,” she said with satisfaction, “you’re learning, Severus.” He looked up and she smiled affectionately at him as she took a long draw of her tea. 


	5. Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would seem that Severus and Hermione aren't the only ones taking a "break" from their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit shorter than usual, but it's still important - it sets things up for later. I do like foreshadowing (hint, hint)! Next week's chapter title - Aethelbert Duggins. Are you liking this so far? Let me know!

**Ginny**

He wound the long, silk cloth around his neck, tying a small knot at his throat. He then pulled up his pristine white shirt collar so that it stuck out just above the black cravat. It covered, but only just, the horrific wounds he had suffered in the Shrieking Shack only a few months before. He shrugged on his coat, did up the buttons, and picked up the brush from his dresser, sweeping away imaginary lint from his shoulders and arms. His movements were so routine that he didn’t even think about it – his mind was on other things. The new term began on Monday, but before that happened there was the bloody service to get through, which would start in precisely fifteen minutes according to the clock on his dresser. He looked at his pale, angular face, set as ever in a neutral expression that belied the inner turmoil – he was certain that everyone would be staring at him and wondering why _he_ had lived and their loved ones hadn’t. 

Halfway across the castle and several floors up, Hermione was looking at herself in the mirror. While her thoughts were mainly on the service that was about to begin, she was also nervous about her exams. Harry and Ron skipped out on them because they were allowed to enroll in auror training without further qualifications, but she, Neville, and everyone else who had missed out because of the last battle had finished sitting their NEWTs only the day before, giving the repaired dormitories, common rooms, and the Room of Requirement – which was standing in as the dining hall for the year – a test run in the process. In the middle of what was undoubtedly going to be a hectic first week, she was due to take the general knowledge potioneer’s exam in London. Severus couldn’t go with her since he was needed to help iron out the inevitable problems that would arise with the return of students, so she was pretty much on her own. 

But she had to put all of that aside for the moment – one thing at a time. She donned her school dress robes, which she hadn’t worn in well over a year, not since before she and the boys had gone on the run in search of Horcruxes. They fit a bit loose on her now, but she hardly noticed – there were just too many other things on her mind. She scanned her reflection in the mirror one more time, stuffed a wad of tissues into her sleeve, and headed out.

People were already gathered in the courtyard as Hermione made her way to the Weasleys, who took up a whole corner all by themselves, they and the memorial stone that had Fred’s name chiseled across it. Harry was standing among them while the stones for Sirius and his parents lay nearby. Molly had one arm around Ginny and a fierce grip on George’s hand as Charlie stood next to them. Bill had a protective hand around a pregnant Fleur, while Arthur chatted quietly with Ron and Harry. Percy hung back, part of the group and yet . . . _not_. As Hermione spoke with Molly, she noticed Ginny stealing glances at Harry, who seemed to be trying not to look her way – she had the distinct feeling that something was wrong, but this wasn’t the time or place to enquire.  

She tracked Severus as he joined his colleagues, who were standing around a stone with Dumbledore’s name emblazoned on it. Shaklebolt stood with them – he would lay the stone for Mad Eye – while Hagrid guarded a memorial for Dobby. Severus looked in her direction, and they exchanged a brief glance, but by prior agreement there was no further acknowledgement. Neither of them wanted to be the subject of conversation, not here, not today.

They were nearly all there. Andromeda Tonks, holding her grandson Teddy, stood in front of memorials to her daughter, Nymphadora and son-in-law Remus, while Lavender Brown and Colin Creevey’s families huddled beside their monuments. Neville was there, too, standing stoically alone next to the stones to his parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, who were as good as dead, having spent virtually the whole of his life in the psychiatric wing of St. Mungo’s after having been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix in the first war. There were other families present as well – she vaguely recognized a few people – all come to memorialize their loss.

When the clock struck noon, everyone’s attention turned to Minerva, who took up a position near where the new entrance had already been framed in. She didn’t patronize them with stale words of comfort – they all knew why they were there, knew the sacrifices that they and their family and friends had made, and as each name was called out, the stones were levitated into place. Harry set the first three, followed by Neville. And so they worked their way around the courtyard. When Fred’s stone was set and the family withdrew from the rising wall, George briefly lingered, his forehead and hands reverent against the stone as he whispered into the rock that bore his twin’s name. When he came away, his parents and siblings swallowed him whole into their collective embrace. The last stone was Dumbledore’s, which Minerva placed directly over the entrance way. The headmistress stepped back and looked at the names. She spoke almost to herself, although her words rang clear around the courtyard.

“This place has been consecrated, first by the blood of our loved ones, and now . . . ” – she paused to collect herself – “. . . and now by the tears we have shed today. Let these be the last of the names that ever need to be etched on this wall.” 

Heads bobbed around the courtyard in agreement as tears were wiped and noses blown discreetly. Minerva turned to face the grieving families, opening her arms and inviting everyone to take refreshment in the Room of Requirement’s temporary dining hall.

Hermione instinctively knew that Severus would hang back and try and slip away and so looked for him as she was carried forward towards the entrance by the wave of Weasleys. He was bringing up the rear – she was relieved to see that Minerva had taken his arm, no doubt to make sure he didn’t rush off to the dungeons to drown himself in a whiskey bottle.  

As they filtered in, Hermione noticed that Ginny and Harry continued to keep their distance from each other. It wasn’t pointed by any means, but it was clear – at least to Hermione – that something was indeed terribly wrong between the two of them. While their friends and family sipped coffee and nibbled on small sandwiches, Hermione pulled Ginny to one side.

“What’s going on with you and Harry?” she asked quietly.

Tears immediately formed in her friend’s already red-rimmed eyes, and they moved further away from the crowd of people.

“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny whispered weepily, “it’s been an _awful_ summer.”

“Why? What’s happened?” she asked, concerned and wondering why this was the first she was hearing of it.

The young woman looked away, clearly struggling not to cry openly.

“Have you and Harry had a fight?”

“It’s so much _worse_ than that,” Ginny sniffled. Hermione reached into her sleeve and pulled out a tissue, which her friend gratefully took.

“What is it?” Hermione encouraged.

“He . . . he wants us to take a _break_ from our relationship,” she stuttered.

Hermione hardly knew how to respond. “What?”

“It was _horrible_ this summer,” she said again. Hermione was confused. Admittedly, she hadn’t seen much of anyone, what with nursing Severus back to health and then traveling to Australia. And of course when she got back she had to begin revising for her NEWTs and the guild’s exam almost immediately, not to mention help out with the school. But she had met up with all of them a couple of times, and she didn’t recall noticing anything different among her friends. Had she been too engrossed in her own situation and missed something?

Ginny continued. “I thought that after the war was over, things would get back to normal, you know?” she said hesitatingly. “But they didn’t. If anything, things got worse.”

“In what way?”

Ginny looked around before continuing. “He doesn’t sleep anymore, not very well anyway – he has nightmares nearly every night.”

“But that’s to be expected, after everything that’s happened,” Hermione comforted.

“I know,” she quickly responded, “but he wouldn’t talk to me about it. He wouldn’t even talk to Ron. He would fall into these . . . these _rages_ , and then disappear for longs periods of time. He wouldn’t answer owls, made excuses not to come to the Burrow, and even when we were together, his mind was just . . . _elsewhere_. Mum and Dad said to give him some time, that he had a lot of things to work out, and I knew all of that, and I didn’t nag him about it, but he just grew more . . . _distant_. And then, last week . . . .” Ginny gasped and put her hand to her mouth, unable to finish the sentence.

Hermione put her arm around her friend’s shoulder and drew her close. “It’s alright, Gin,” she said soothingly.

“No, it’s _not_ alright!” she choked, loud enough for those near them to briefly turn in their direction before politely looking away again – it had been that kind of morning for everyone, after all.

“He told me earlier this week that he thinks we should take some . . . some _time_ . . . _away_ from our relationship,” she whispered tearfully. “He said he loved me and that we weren’t splitting up, but then he said he thought we should have this . . . this _break_ so I could be with my family and finish school, and he could get his auror training done. But I don’t understand why we can’t see each other in the meantime.”

Hermione sighed. What _was_ it about this taking a _break_ thing? “Did you ask him to explain?”

“Yes, of course I did! He said we were both going to be very busy, and that it would be hard to see each other with me up here and him . . . Merlin knew where, that he didn’t want me waiting around on weekends for him when I could be having fun with friends . . . and a whole lot of other rubbish,” she finished.

Hermione guided Ginny to a bench and put an arm around her back protectively. She leaned in, her hair spilling over her friend’s shoulder so that they would be shielded from prying eyes.

“Ginny, you said he told you he _loved_ you and _wasn’t_ splitting up with you,” she reasoned as calmly as she could.

“Yes, but isn’t that what a . . . a _break_ in a relationship is?”

“Not necessarily,” Hermione smiled ruefully, and Ginny caught it.

“What?” she asked angrily.

“Ginny . . . I think you should take him at his word,” she suggested. Ginny’s eyes went wide, first in surprise and then in hurt at her friend’s lack of support. When she struggled to get up, Hermione pulled her back down to her side. “Look, if he says he’s not breaking up with you, then he’s _not_ breaking up with you,” she started.

“Then what in Merlin’s name _is_ he doing?” she asked accusingly.

“I haven’t talked to him, so I don’t know for sure, but he has a lot of stuff to work through, stuff that really doesn’t have anything to do with you,” she commented. Ginny shifted uncomfortably, but Hermione stayed her once again. “You and I think that the war is over, but it isn’t, not for him, and not for a lot of people,” she said knowingly.

Ginny looked at her quizzically.

“He has a lot of things to sort out, Gin – a _lot_. Guilt over the sacrifice his parents made on his behalf, guilt over learning that they weren’t particularly nice when they were his age, guilt over believing the absolute _worst_ of Professor Snape when in fact he tried to protect him, anger over how Dumbledore used him and guilt over _feeling_ that anger, guilt over Fred, Serius, Remus, Tonks, Dobby, and just . . . _everyone_ who died, even though _none_ of that was his fault.”

Ginny hung her head and blew into her tissue.

“I could help him,” she whimpered.  

“He’s already told you how you can help him,” she said gently. Ginny looked up. “He told you flat out that he loves you and that he isn’t breaking up with you. He’s told you he needs time and that _you_ need time as well, and he’s _right_. You both need to mourn, you both . . . you both need to think about what you want out of life, now,” she finished, savoring the irony of parroting Severus’s own sentiments.

Hermione turned to look over her shoulder, and Ginny followed her gaze. Harry was making moves to leave. She took her friend by the shoulders. “You can’t leave it like this. Go – talk to him before he heads out. He has to know – _needs_ to know – that you understand. And Gin,” she said, “ _insist_ that the two of you keep in touch – whatever happens at the end of this school year, you have to still be friends, ok?” Ginny nodded, blew her nose once more, and then drifted over to her family. They peeled away, allowing the two of them to have a private word.

George crossed the room and joined Hermione, giving her a mischievous smile.

“I hear you’re going to apprentice with the _Bat of the Dungeons_ ,” he said teasingly.

“George!” Hermione swatted him on the arm. He grinned at her.

“Actually,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I’ve heard a _lot_ more than just that.”

“Oh?” she asked noncommittally, her smile becoming increasingly forced.

“Yeah. I heard that the two of you were doing the _horizontal tango_ this summer, the _bedroom rodeo_ , some _brewing in the lab_ . . . .”

Hermione immediately clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the euphemisms pouring forth, but he jerked his head away and grabbed the offending wrist, laughing.

“. . . a bit of _private wand work_ , _night flying on his broom_ . . . .”

She was now trying to stopper him with her other hand, but he fought her off as they pushed and shoved their way down the side of the hall, drawing indulgent looks from those around them, even though they couldn’t actually hear the content of the conversation. George rarely smiled these days, and when he did, it was fleetingly. No one begrudged him a bit of what looked like boisterous teasing if it made him forget, even if only for a few minutes.

Neither of them saw Molly look their way and poke Arthur in the ribs, didn’t notice when the matriarch whispered in her husband’s ear and nod in their direction, and didn’t comprehend the look of hopefulness in both of their faces as they watched the horseplay. But Severus did. He knew _precisely_ what they were thinking – his stomach lurched and his heart raced. He clenched his jaw and kept his face as neutral as he could, putting down the punch cup that he had been holding for form’s sake and slipping away from the gathering – he needed stronger stuff than the pinkish piss the house elves had served up. Only Minerva saw him leave and discerned the reason why. She, too, noted the roughhousing and the Weasleys’ hopeful expressions, but the headmistress knew better than them, even if her surly colleague did not.

Harry left soon after as well, leaving Ginny still tearful but not quite as forlorn as she had been earlier that afternoon. The Weasleys gathered themselves and said their goodbyes to their daughter, who remained behind for the start of school on Monday. As the rest of the gathering broke up, Hermione looked around for Severus – she hadn’t noticed him leave. When she offered to go with Ginny back to her room, her friend waved her off, saying she wanted to be alone. Sprout dragged Neville away to do a bit of repotting, and the rest of the faculty headed off to finish their preparations for the new school year. Minerva invited Hermione to have some tea in her office, but she was starting to feel a bit teary after everything and wanted something stronger – a whiskey and a pair of comforting arms. If she was lucky, she might get both from an understanding potions master.

Severus was on his second whiskey when the floo sounded.  

“Severus?” a small, tired voice called out.

“Come through,” he responded, and she did, almost immediately. They stared at each other for a moment before he learned forward on the sofa and poured a measure into an empty tumbler he had waiting for her on the table.

He handed her the drink as she fell down next to him. She coughed a bit with her first sip, but worked doggedly at it as they sat quietly. When it was nearly gone and she was finally starting to feel its effects, she reached for his hand, pulling it around her shoulders as she swung her legs over his knees. Severus threw back the rest of his drink and set the glass on the table before putting a hand around her waist and hauling her more firmly into his lap. He turned and pressed his lips against her forehead as the tears began to fall silently down her face.

Brutal. That’s what it had been, just . . . _brutal_ , and while he had long experience in controlling his emotions, he felt the sting of moisture in his own eyes. But for the woman in his arms, _his_ name might have been up there along with everyone else’s, and there certainly wouldn’t have been anyone around to genuinely mourn him except perhaps Minerva and Hagrid. Oh, everyone might have acknowledged his contribution, but that would have been about it. His stone probably would have ended up in a corner, near the ground where it wouldn’t be much noticed, where it wouldn’t tarnish the reputations of all the others who had fallen. It was a hard realization and it brought home to him the fact that, because of the witch in his arms, he had a second chance, and Merlin, he was determined to seize it. He could only hope that she would be there in the end to help him, because in George he had a real competitor, encouraged as the young man no doubt would be by the mighty force that was Molly Weasley. He tried to take solace from the fact that she had sought _him_ out for comfort and was even now nestled in _his_ arms, but there were still many months to go.


	6. Aethelbert Duggins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus and Hermione discuss the details of her apprenticeship, including what she might do for her master's project, and he is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rather longer than usual. The bit about standing on the shoulders of giants comes from Isaac Newton, who may have gotten it from Bernard of Chartres in the 12th century. Next week's chapter title: Harry. If you are enjoying this, please let me know!

**Æthelbert Duggins**

Hermione was so nervous about her up-coming guild exam that the arrival of students on Sunday hardly fazed her – sitting next to Severus, she was practically oblivious to Minerva’s welcome back speech or the sorting. It was only when her dinner companion started to load up the plate in front of her and peremptorily ordered her to eat that she realized that she had missed it all.

“I’m not really very hungry,” she said, pushing the plate away from her.

He shoved it right back. “You will sit here until your plate is _clean_ , Miss Granger, even if it takes all night and I have to put a _sticking charm_ on the bloody chair,” he stated grumpily. “You’ve hardly eaten the last few days – how do you expect to get through the exam unless you are properly nourished?”

She smiled to herself at his concern, which he so carefully disguised from everyone in the room – she picked up her fork just to satisfy him.

On Wednesday, he delayed the start of a potions class for the first time ever in his career, just so he could walk her down to the apparition point. Of course he told students – as well as his colleagues – that she needed instruction right up to the last moment possible, but she knew the truth of it, and they walked in silence. Intellectually, she knew she was well-prepared, but it was one thing internalizing that fact up in Scotland and something altogether different from demonstrating it in London, scratching out answers while guild invigilators watched her every move to ensure she wasn’t cheating.

When they got to the apparition spot, she turned to him, wringing her hands and thinking about how presumptuous she was trying to gain a masters in just one year. He looked her right in the eye, and while from a distance no one would have described his expression as deviating in any way from his usual condescension, she could see his pride in her reflected in his face. He straightened his shoulders and looked down his preposterous nose.

“Let the examiners stare and tut-tut at you all they like – just be the bloody pain in the arse Gryffindor _I_ have known all these years and show them exactly _who_ Hermione Granger is.” With that, he stepped back, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.

She couldn’t help herself – she grinned in response and then spun away.

It was a long four hours, and students were on the receiving end of his sharp tongue for virtually all of it. He kept looking at the clock on the wall and students assumed that, only three days into the term, he was already as tired of them as they were of him. By lunch, word had gone round the school that he was in a particularly foul mood, which was accurate enough, though not for the reasons they supposed. He picked at his lunch, glowering now and again at students who seemed on the verge of misbehaving – and at many who were not. She showed up half-way through the meal, looking flushed and a bit haggard as she plopped down beside him and dug into her lasagna without preamble.

He made no comment, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to hold it in for very long, but when it became clear that she was more interested in the entrée than telling him how things went, he couldn’t wait any longer.

“ _Well_?” he drawled irritably.

Her response was mumbled, given the food still in her mouth – his patience was nearly at an end when she was finally at a point where she could respond to his question.

“Sorry,” she said apologetically, running a napkin across her mouth, “I’m just so hungry. Anyway, it was fine.” He arched a brow. “Well, the wizard and witch proctoring the exam didn’t look all that pleased at having to spend their morning watching me write, but I felt like I knew everything,” she said nonchalantly, moving on from the pasta to the salad. She was seemingly oblivious to how nervous he had . . . _she_ had been only hours before. He scowled reflexively as she worked her way through the greens on her plate. He would press her for a fuller report later – for now, he had to prevent an exchange of bread rolls between two of the house tables.

Ultimately, the debriefing proved to be quite perfunctory, and he understood why she had been so blasé about it – after having so recently sat her NEWTs, the guild exam had been quite straightforward. Now, it was only a matter of just how sky-high her scores would be. That thought gave him pause – would they be as good as his had been? He brushed the notion aside, but it nevertheless settled in at the back of his mind.

Hermione was notified two weeks into the term that she had received top marks on her NEWTs. Neville, too, had done well, even in potions, thanks to the tutelage of his friend, but she was far too busy helping set up the potions classroom to revel in her success – predictably enough, the final batch of supplies and equipment was only just arriving, even though classes had already begun. But when an owl flew into the temporary dining hall at breakfast the second Friday of the new school year, nerves overcame her – a tiny tag emblazoned with the arms of the Potioneers’ Guild dangled from it's collar. She took the letter from the bird’s mouth while Severus gave it a piece of bacon and sent it on its way. Everyone at the high table fell silent, each of them paused mid-way through their meal, trying not to make her more nervous by openly staring. Hermione bit her lip as she rubbed the expensive embossed stationery between her fingers.

“ _For fuck’s sake_ , just _open_ the damned thing so we can all get on with the day,” he growled impatiently, scowling at a Gryffindor who was about to flick a piece of fruit at an unsuspecting Hufflepuff – one glare was all it took for the miscreant to slink back down into his seat.

She picked up her knife, threaded it along the lip of the envelope, and swiftly sliced through the seam. Putting the tableware down, she took a deep breath, plucked out the letter and carefully unfolded it. As she quickly read the contents, a broad grin spread across her face – she turned to him and beamed.

“I did it!” she announced rather incredulously.

“Of _course_ you did, you silly girl,” he replied with feigned annoyance, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, hiding his smirk behind his coffee mug.

She turned to the rest of the table, waving the letter and smiling broadly. The tension broke, and their relief on her behalf was palpable. Congratulations were sent her way, although there wasn’t much time for her to enjoy it – classes waited for no one, and soon the room was emptying out of both students and faculty. She and Severus parted company at the door. “I have a meeting with Minerva this morning, but the shipment of supplies should be here soon so you’ll have to receive it – get a start on it and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

All in all, the news that she had passed the guild’s general knowledge exam seemed rather anticlimactic as she pushed through groups of students crowding the corridors on her way to the potions classroom. The shipment arrived not ten minutes later – the workmen taking a break from their own jobs helped haul it in – and she started unpacking. There were new cauldrons, stirrers, knives, and seemingly dozens of other pieces of brewing equipment – all of it had to be seasoned or cleaned before being used the first time. There were new books as well, mostly key reference texts, and then there were three boxes marked _Fragile_ , which contained ingredients of all varieties – many of these were in bulk quantities and needed to be divided up into other containers.

She had scrubbed and put away all of the equipment, shelved the books and stored some of the smaller ingredient parcels by the time Severus appeared to walk her to lunch. She ate heartily, having worked up an appetite from that morning’s exertion, and only noticed halfway through her meal that he wasn’t having anything more than a cup of tea.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” she paused long enough to ask.

“No,” he replied – she completely missed the sadistic gleam in his eye as he continued to nurse his mug.

On their way back from lunch, she couldn’t hold back the question that had been teasing her since breakfast. “You didn’t seem particularly surprised that I passed the exam,” she observed. He looked down at her knowingly but otherwise said nothing. “You knew I passed,” she stated more than asked.

“Perhaps,” he replied non-committally, shooing her through the door to the potions classroom.

He took the sheaf of papers he was carrying into his quarters and then joined her at the table where she had prepared their work stations – he left the door to his rooms open. Chit-chat slowed to a minimum as they began to process the potions ingredients, sorting them into smaller storage containers – some had to be further chopped or diced. She started to become uneasy almost the instant the first package was opened. The sight and smell of so many different ingredients wasn’t for the weak and he watched her carefully but otherwise said nothing – it was something she was going to have to get used to.

Within thirty minutes, her face was pale and tiny beads of perspiration were forming across her brow, but she soldiered on. It was only when her breathing shallowed that he knew she was near the end of her tolerance. She grasped the edge of the stainless steel stable and stepped away slightly, lowering her head. When she raised it, her eyes were wide with sudden realization and she bolted from the room. He could hear her retching as he followed behind – he went straight to the kitchen to make some tea. When he finished, he headed for the bathroom and knocked on the door. There was no reply, but he opened it to find Hermione sitting on the edge of the tub with a wet flannel in her hand.

“That’s never happened before,” she said faintly, wiping her face.

He took the cloth from her, rinsing and wringing it out in the sink. Pushing away her hair, he laid it on the back of her neck, causing her to inhale deeply.

“I’m sorry I had to do that to you,” he said rather formally.

It took a moment for what he said to sink in fully. “What?” she asked, turning to look at him wearily, thoroughly confused at his statement.

“You have to be careful about _what_ and _when_ you eat as a potions master. It’s not an issue with most standard ingredients and potions, but when you have a lot of them to deal with, or when the brew is particularly complicated and has a lot of components, the more susceptible you are to the sight and stench of it all.”

“And you couldn’t have just _told_ me this?” she asked, trying to find the strength to be indignant.

“No,” he said firmly. “Until you’ve actually experienced it, you have no idea what it can be like.” He took the cloth away from her neck. “Come,” he said, taking her arm to steady her. She mumbled something under her breath – it sounded like _bastard_ , but he wasn’t going to stretch his luck and ask.

He steered her into the kitchen and poured out the tea, which she gratefully accepted. After the roiling in her stomach settled, she dared a question.

“So you . . . you wouldn’t know what my actual score was,” she prodded – under the circumstances, he owed her at least that.

“My understanding is that it was quite . . . _respectable_ ,” he drawled, casually sipping his tea. 

“Respectable,” she repeated thoughtfully, cupping the mug between her hands. “Was it as high as yours was?”

He snorted. “Not likely,” he said with more than a little relief, “but it _was_ sufficiently impressive for compliments to be made on the _instruction_ you received while at school,” he bragged.

This time there was no mistaking what she said as she sipped her tea – s _mug bastard_ – but at least it was said with a modicum of respect.

The tea helped, and when they went back to the lab her color had returned, as had her determination not to keel over a second time. That resolve was made easier by the fact that he kept her focused, actively quizzing her knowledge of the ingredients they were working with and filling her in on the ones that she knew less about. It took a while to process everything and transfer all the containers to the class storage room, and by the time they were finished, it was late in the day. He suggested that she go clean herself up and then join him for dinner in his rooms – now that her admission was official, they needed to map out exactly what her apprenticeship was going to be like. They couldn’t miss dinner in the makeshift hall every night, but Minerva would understand occasional absences.

Hermione was genuinely exhausted when she got back to her rooms – her shoulders burned from having worked over a table for so long – but she forgot all that when she spied a box siting on her dining table. The lid sported Madam Malkin’s distinctive gold label in the middle and she carefully lifted it up. Inside was a note.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I hope you will allow me to show you how proud I am of your accomplishments – you do our House and school proud._

_Minerva_

Pulling away the tissue, she lifted out the finest set of robes she had ever seen – all black and made of a fine, light weight wool. She immediately tore off her old and worn Hogwart’s robe and slipped on the garment, dashing into the bedroom to get a good look at it. The robe fit her perfectly, snug enough to suggest a figure underneath, but not so tight as to hinder movement. The sleeves were wide but there was a discreet button at each elbow so they could be secured when she needed to pull them up to keep them out of the way. The insignia of the Potioneers’ Guild at the left shoulder was embroidered in gold, orange, and red silk thread. A straight line underneath in cream denoted her apprentice status. She slipped her hands into the cleverly hidden pockets and found another piece of paper. Drawing it out, she read it through – Madam Malkin personally guaranteed that the robe would not burn or stain, and once the apprenticeship was over, her shop would make the necessary adjustments to the shield to reflect that fact at no charge. The robes must have cost a fortune, but there was no mistaking the quality, and Hermione was warmed by her mentor’s generosity.

She showered, groomed her hair, and put on her new robe – she wanted Severus to see it before anyone else did. He was just opening some wine for them when she came in and he did a double take. She struck a few poses so he could see it properly, and he tried not to scowl, but as Hermione twirled about, he was practically struck dumb. She looked quite _professional_ in the apprentice robes . . . and all grown up as well, what with the shape of her figure strongly suggested under the fabric. 

“Well?” she finally asked. “What do you think?”

“Very nice,” he admitted, “but hardly work-a-day garb.”

“On the contrary – it’s fire and stain proof, and the sleeves button back. See,” she said, giving him a demonstration. If anything, she looked even more fetching with her white shirt emerging from her elbow and running to her wrist and he gave in to the inevitable.

“Yes, fine,” he practically growled, indicating she should take a seat at the table. His humor did not improve as Hermione compulsively fingered the robe throughout dinner – when he couldn’t stand it another minute the words were out of his mouth before he could help himself. “I suppose you’ll be wearing it to _bed_ ,” he noted caustically.

She went very quiet. “Don’t you like it?” she asked in a disappointed voice.

He swallowed down the jealousy he was already feeling over every wizard who would now be looking at her with renewed interest. “Yes, of course I do – it’s very becoming on you,” he truthfully observed, “it’s just that you need to remember that an apprenticeship is more than a set of robes, however lovely they are.”

She huffed. “Naturally,” she replied, reaching for the water to hide the blush creeping up her neck, suddenly realizing how foolish she must appear to him, gushing about mere clothes when it was the work she really needed to focus on.

Her obvious embarrassment made him feel like a cad, and since they were finished eating, he suggested that they retire to the chairs in front of the fire – anything to get past the awkward moment. Once they were comfortable, him with his after dinner whiskey and her with a pot of tea, he broached the particulars of her apprenticeship.

“There will be occasions when you will assist with some of the sixth and seventh-year classes. They will learn from your experience, but you, too, will benefit from regularly having to demonstrate various preparation techniques, not to mention brewing in front of the students – I want you to feel absolutely comfortable in front of other people by the time you have to do it for your examiners next summer.”

She nodded in agreement.

“You will brew most days,” he continued, “either in my private lab on your own, or, in the case of particularly difficult or finicky potions, in the classroom while I teach.”

“What will I be brewing?” she asked, her interest growing.

“Various things for the school infirmary, but also more challenging potions for St. Mungos. Other assignments will be of a more esoteric nature. During my free periods, I’ll be quizzing you on your reading and work, as well as testing your ability to recognize ingredients from the school’s storage closet – and my own private sources – by smell alone.”

“Will you tell me in advance so I can skip the meal beforehand?”

“ _No_ ,” he unhesitatingly replied.

She muttered that word again, and did so resentfully as she sipped her tea.

“In the evenings,” he went on, “you’ll study and carry out the research required for your master’s project. Speaking of which, now that you’ve passed the general knowledge exam, you need to start thinking about what area of potions you’d like to focus on for that project. Some ideas will no doubt . . . .”

“I already know what I want to do,” she interrupted him, looking at him a bit nervously over her cup of tea.

“ _Really_?” he drawled somewhat condescendingly.

“Well, you mentioned a while back that I’d have to invent a new potion or . . . or significantly improve on an _old_ one, so I’ve been giving it some thought for a couple of months, now.”

“Yes, of _course_ you have, Miss Granger,” he replied, trying not to sound irritated at her initiative – he really should have known that an over-achiever like herself would have made a start on things.

They sat there quietly for a moment.

“ _Well_?” he asked impatiently.

“It . . . it concerns your nerve regeneration potion,” she began haltingly.

“What about it?” he replied as evenly as he could given the alarm bells starting to go off in his head.  

“I want to work with your potion,” she said simply. He stared at her blankly and she sped onward. “The nerve regeneration potion – it’s general, geared for the entire nervous system. I was thinking . . . .” She put her cup on the table and leaned forward. “I was thinking . . . what if it could be tailored to individual injuries? The potion as it currently stands is designed for a complete system failure. But most people don’t fall into that category – they have specific injuries that need treatment, and giving them the potion as it currently stands might actually do them more harm than good on the uninjured parts of the body. What if the potion could be designed to target _just_ the nerves that were damaged?”

He stared at her stonily as the proposal washed over him. Surely . . . _surely_ he hadn’t heard her right. She couldn’t have just suggested that his – _his!_ – potion could be . . . could be _improved_? Not his entirely revolutionary brew that had saved his bloody life? The one he had staked his claim on in _Potioneers’ Monthly_? By _her_?! But the eager look on her face told him otherwise, and he couldn’t prevent a sense of outrage from bubbling from within. Who the bloody hell did she think she was, anyway?

“Ambitious _chit_ , aren’t you,” he sneered, throwing back his drink and getting up to pour another.

“Oh, I _knew_ you’d react like this,” she sputtered, sitting back and sighing impatiently.

“And why _wouldn’t_ I?” he replied harshly, splashing the whiskey into the tumbler. “It only took me a fucking _year_ to develop that potion.”

“I’m looking at virtually the same time frame too, you know,” she replied sharply.

“And have you considered,” he ploughed on, hardly missing a beat, “that I wouldn’t be able to guide your work since I’m the one who invented the original potion? You’d have to do the project with someone else, which I will _not_ permit,” he said emphatically when she opened her mouth to interrupt. “Whoever directed your project would have to be read into my research, and I have a _proprietary_ claim on it – I will _not_ have it stolen!”

When he finished, the room fell silent and he realized that he had raised his voice – he needed to calm down. He knew she wouldn’t jeopardize the rights to his own creation or want to work with someone else, and that helped restore some degree of equilibrium.  The corners of his mouth lifted slightly – he would be generous in her defeat. “So you see,” he said, almost smiling, “it simply wouldn’t work.” He settled back into the chair, confident of his victory. “You’ll have to find something else.”

She didn’t immediately respond, rather she had a look on her face that made him increasingly uneasy.

“What about Mr. Duggins?” she asked, just as he took a sip of his drink – he inhaled most of it, sparking a coughing fit. She conjured some water and offered it solicitously, but he waved her off testily.

“You can’t be serious,” he just managed to croak out in the face of the unbearable tickling in his throat.

“Why ever not?” she pressed.

“He’s been retired, happily retired, now, for fifteen years, ever since his accident,” he rasped, still trying to get a grip on his voice.

“ _Happily_ retired? I doubt that,” she commented. “He doesn’t strike me as someone who’s gone to seed.”

“That’s _not_ what I was implying,” he retorted. “Besides, what on earth makes you think he’d even be interested?”

“Nothing in particular – but couldn’t we ask? He could supervise my project and you could focus on everything else. And you certainly wouldn’t have to worry that he’d steal your potion and pass it off as his own.”

He looked at her with some anger – it was clear to him that she had indeed been thinking about this for quite some time.

“Look, Severus . . . .” His forbidding expression made her pause and she shifted in her chair. “Right, then – _Professor_ . . . I have thought about this _very_ carefully, and I have a few ideas that I’d really like to try out. I haven’t shared _any_ of this before now because I wanted to be certain about it. I also knew you probably wouldn’t be pleased,” she added, almost under her breath – he pursed his lips in response. “I’m _not_ trying to steal your thunder – or anything _else_ , for that matter,” she swiftly assured him. “You announced that you were working on the nerve regeneration potion in _Potioneer’s Monthly_ almost a year ago, and I simply assumed you’d be writing up a formal paper on it soon anyway, based on your experience with it back in May. Or am I mistaken in that assumption?” she pushed.

“No, you are not,” he said coolly, studying her over his tumbler as he took a careful drink.

“Good, then – I’m really looking forward to reading it,” she said emphatically.

“Have you been in touch with Duggins?” he asked cuttingly.

“No,” she answered firmly. “I wanted to talk to you, first,” she said, almost indignant that he would even think such a thing. He stared at her for quite a while, and in the silence, she stared right back.

“Are you _really_ sure this is what you want to do?” he asked steadily.

“It is,” she affirmed. More silence followed. There was no help for it.

“Then we had better plan on flying over to see him – and as _soon_ as possible,” he said with ill grace.   

The clock struck the hour, and Hermione stood, straightening her new robes. “It’s getting on and I should make an early night of it.” He didn’t get up. Stepping over to the side of his chair, she leaned down to kiss his cheek, which he petulantly refused to offer, so she pecked him quickly on the forehead. “Good night, Severus,” she murmured before turning, taking a pinch of floo powder, and stepping through the hearth.

The room was cold and she didn’t bother putting a fire in the grate, rather she went straight to the bedroom. All in all, the conversation had gone better than she thought it would – at least he hadn’t shouted at her. Well, at least not much. She knew he was disappointed, and more than a little peeved at her presumption, but what she had in mind was simply too important to let his ego get in the way. St. Mungo’s still had patients from the war, and she thought – firmly _believed_ , in fact, after having spent some time thinking about it – that she could make adjustments to the nerve regeneration potion that might help at least some of them. Since Severus couldn’t direct her project, Duggins was the perfect stand-in, and she was absolutely certain he’d do it. It would be hard for Severus to let go. In fact, she knew, even as she climbed into bed, that he was likely still in front of the fire, brooding on it. But he’d come around. She was sure of that as well.

The fire was down to mere embers before he decided to call it a night. Certainly no amount of whiskey was going to change anything. He should have been proud of her commitment and determination – and he was, in an abstract way, but it was tempered by his offended sensibilities that she wanted to make changes to his potion. _Merlins balls_ , she had never even _heard_ of such a potion until a few months back and now she wanted to tinker with it. Where did she get that kind of confidence and ambition? But he knew the answer well enough – she was young and had survived a brutal war. She was fueled by youth and hopefulness, and a drive to make each day count for something.

What it all meant in more practical and immediate terms, however, was that he was going to have to get his arse in gear and write up his research on the potion, and sooner rather than later if he wanted to publish his work before Hermione finished her project. And he also had to arrange a visit to see Duggins. He should have gone to see him during the summer, but there really had been so much else to do. Now, though, he didn’t want to go, because he was certain that Duggins would agree to the proposal and he’d have to hand off Hermione and her project to him. The fact that Duggins had been his mentor wouldn’t make it any easier to do. It was yet more distance between him and Hermione – they were physically apart and that would be compounded now by a certain degree of intellectual distance as well. 

Severus contacted Duggins by owl the next morning, and to his dismay the old wizard responded immediately, or rather his house elf did on behalf of his blind master – they were invited to tea that very afternoon. He grimaced when he read Bramble’s note – his former teacher was a preternaturally intuitive wizard and Severus instinctively knew that Duggins sensed what their visit was about and was clearly eager to be involved. Suppressing his gloom, he curtly told Hermione at lunch to meet him in the courtyard at 4:00, and she appeared precisely at the top of the hour.

Remembering what her last ride on Severus’s broom had been like, Hermione took appropriate precautions this time around. Dressed in a scarf and wax jacket, she rather looked like she had just stepped out of _Horse and Hounds_ , which her parents used to subscribe to for the waiting room of their dental practice, but she didn’t care, although Severus balked at the sight of her.

“I’m not entirely sure I want to be seen with you,” he assessed critically.

“I’m not getting on that broom without protection,” she volleyed.

“Well at least you don’t have goggles,” he commented acerbically.

She smiled winningly at him, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a very old fashioned pair. Slipping them over her head and adjusting the band, she looked like a goggle-eyed fish with a surprised pucker.

He scowled for form’s sake, hiding his genuine amusement in spite of himself. He took up his position and helped her climb on. She wrapped her arms around him and laced her fingers together over his coat – she would have slung her legs around his waist as well if it had been safe to do. As he blasted off, she clung to him like a Koala and didn’t lift her head the entire flight. The warmth of her against his back and the tug around his middle gave him a sense of deep satisfaction – there was just nothing quite like the feeling of a wizard’s witch clinging to him on his broom. _His_ witch, the gods’ permitting.

Bramble was waiting for them, and they trudged behind him down to the house as she shed her outer layers. Though blind, Duggins seemingly followed their movements from the door of the house and he greeted them at the threshold – there was a moment of silence as Severus straightened himself and stood tall before his diminutive mentor. It had been fifteen months since the two of them had last met, and Hermine felt like an intruder on this reunion. Duggins serenely lifted his hands, felt for his former apprentice’s shoulders and squeezed them before running them down his arms, a very satisfied expression on his face. “I have missed you, my boy!” he said softly with deep emotion.

“In truth, I never thought to see you again,” Severus replied, grasping the wizard’s forearms in return, his voice hoarse from trying to keep himself in check. After a moment, Duggins smiled and turned to Hermione, reaching for her hands.

“Well done, my dear, _well done_!” he said, with affection. “He’s as good as new!” She grinned, knowing that the old wizard would sense it.  “Now, let’s get out of this drafty hall and go have some of Bramble’s excellent tea!” he said warmly, taking her hand in the crook of his arm and leading them both into his sitting room, maneuvering easily through the door and around the furniture as if he could see each and every one of them.  

“Sit, sit, make yourselves comfortable,” he commanded as he took the chair nearest the fire. Severus sat across from him and Hermione settled on the small sofa. She jumped slightly when Bramble cracked into the room with the tea things. As with the last time she was there, the tray was placed next to Duggins's chair, and with a wave of his hand, the pot poured out three perfect cups and just the right amount of milk. Another flick of his arm and two of the cups floated to her and Severus.

“And we mustn’t forget Bramble’s delicious fruit scones,” he offered invitingly, the plate settling gently on the coffee table in front of the hearth – Hermione didn’t wait to be invited a second time.

Once they were comfortable in front of the fire, the conversation drifted to what the last year had been like, starting with the headship. He spared Duggins most of the grim details, and they didn’t discuss the last battle beyond generalities, but no matter his abilities as an _Occlumens_ , he had no doubt that his former teacher was – at the _very_ least – able to sense the residual distress over it all.

“You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Severus,” Duggins observed soberly. “If you hadn’t been there, it would have been far worse.”

“I’m not sure some of the students would agree with you,” he mumbled.

“They have no idea, but we do,” Hermione firmly interjected. Duggins nodded in agreement. They then moved on to Hermione travails gathering the ingredients necessary to brew his nerve regeneration potion after he was injured, from having to break into Rufus Wingtree’s apothecary – “nasty piece of business” was Duggins’s assessment of the wizard pharmacist – to navigating Natalia Venena’s swingers party. “We should never have admitted her to the guild,” was his only comment on _that_ particular episode.

“And I assume Lucius Malfoy was willing to surrender the _Vita et Anima_?” he asked humorously, anticipating the answer.

“It took some effort, but Hermione was able to . . . to _persuade_ him, shall we say,” Severus replied on her behalf.

“ _Brava_ , Miss Granger,” Duggins commented warmly, reaching out to pat her knee in a grandfatherly way. She couldn’t help but shyly blush at his approbation. “And now the nerve regeneration potion is once more at the heart of your visit,” he observed shrewdly – nothing slipped by the old wizard, even if he _was_ blind.  

Hermione nervously turned to look at Severus. This was going to be exceedingly difficult for him, though he nodded for her to get on with it – _she_ had to be the one to ask.

“As I’m sure you know, I’m doing an apprenticeship with Severus,” she began.

“An accelerated stint, I understand,” he added quietly as he patiently sipped his tea. She knew for a fact that he hadn’t gotten that information from Severus, which meant that he was still active in guild affairs – that boded well.

“Yes. I know it’s . . . it’s _ambitious_ , and it _still_ might take me the full two years, but I want to try anyway,” she admitted a bit timorously.

“From what I’ve heard of your general knowledge exam scores – which, by the way, were very nearly as high as Severus’s, in case he didn’t tell you” – he noted, knowing perfectly well that his former pupil hadn’t and she smirked at him in response to the information – “but from what I understand, it seems a reasonable course of action. Severus would never have suggested it unless he had _complete_ confidence your abilities. But do go on, my dear – you want to talk to me about your master’s project,” he said knowingly.

“Well, I want to try making some adjustments to Severus’s potion, tailoring it to specific kinds of injuries involving damaged nerves.” She stopped at that point, certain that Duggins would make the right connections.

“And of course Severus can’t oversee your work because it would create a conflict of interest,” he observed.

“Exactly. So I was wondering if you’d be willing to direct it,” she finished hesitantly, gulping down the rest of her tea.

Duggins smiled indulgently at her. “Of _course_ I’d be willing, but only as long as Severus was agreeable,” he said pointedly, turning his head in his former student’s direction.

“I wouldn’t entrust her to anyone else,” Severus replied honestly enough, though he realized that Duggins sensed his disappointment over not being involved.

“That’s very good of you Severus,” Duggins replied kindly.   

“I don’t think the logistics would be very difficult,” Hermione continued. “We could owl each other, or if you were willing, we could set up a floo link, just for communication purposes,” she promised him, knowing how private the wizard was. “And I’m sure I could get someone” – she glanced tentatively in Severus’s direction – “to fly me over when we needed to meet in person.”

“I’d look forward to resuming our chess matches, Severus – if, that is, you had the time,” Duggins added.

“I’d make the time,” he assured his old friend, genuinely welcoming the prospect.

“Well, then, that’s settled.” Duggins declared. “Since there is no time to waste . . . I assume you brought the notes concerning this potion?”

Severus pulled out a small notebook from one of his pockets.

“I also expect you’ll be wanting your book back, the one Miss Granger brought me in May,” Duggins stated, clearing his throat purposefully. “It’s in the lab. If you go to the kitchen, Bramble will take you out there – he knows the spell to unlock the door.”

He was fully aware that he was being deliberately got out of the way – he wouldn’t even be given the pleasure of presenting his own research to his former master. Duggins knew the rules, or more to the point, knew the temperament of his colleagues in the Potioneers’ Guild if they sensed any irregularities. He drank down the rest of his tea and reluctantly handed the notebook to Hermione, ignoring the unbearably sympathetic look on her face as he left the room in search of Duggins’s house elf.

“Now, Miss Granger,” Duggins said, sitting back comfortably in his chair, “if you’ll be so kind as to read me Severus’s notes.”

Severus summoned every ounce of fortitude that he possessed as Bramble finished the dishes at a pace uncharacteristically slow for a house elf. Then it took an irritating four tries before Bramble got the spell right and the door to Duggins’s lab finally unlocked. He knew delaying tactics when he saw them, just as he knew that the book he had Hermione entrust to Duggins’s keeping when he was incapacitated had been deliberately taken from the study and left in the lab long before they had arrived so that he would have something to do while the pair of them talked privately. The text lay on the prep table, still wrapped and bound by Hermione’s hand from nearly five months before – the magic emanating from it washed familiarly over his hand as he tucked it into his pocket. He turned to have a look at the old place.

Duggins hadn’t worked in the lab since the accident that blinded him fifteen years before, but the place was sparkling, without a speck of dust to be seen, due – no doubt – to Bramble’s efforts. His time with Duggins was the happiest he had ever known, although it had also ironically been punctuated by his early experiences as a Death Eater. In those early days Tom Riddle had lavished attention on him, kept him close to hand when he went among his followers, favored him above all others, and being ambitious and deprived of any recognition from his peers, his parched ego had lapped it up. He knew that Duggins disapproved, but the older wizard had said nothing at the time and he learned only years later the reason why.

“Would you have listened to me?” Duggins had asked over one of their regular games of chess.

“No,” he had honestly replied.

“That’s why I didn’t say anything. Oh, I could have argued with you, but it would only have driven a wedge between us, and I didn’t want that. Sometimes, the only way we learn is by going our own way and taking the consequences.”

And he had taken those consequences like the body blows they were. The night the Dark Lord killed Lily, he went to Dumbledore, who offered him little sympathy and spoke only about him promising to protect Harry. Crazed with grief, he got on his broom and flew wildly through the night, eventually finding his way to Duggins’s island, mentally and emotionally exhausted. Duggins had been waiting there through the wee hours, somehow registering that he was in acute distress without knowing the reason why, and he had flung himself at his mentor’s knees in the throes of his anguish. Without saying a word, Duggins had helped him to his feet and nearly carried him to the house, tiny wizard though he was. The next morning, Duggins had sat him down in front of the fire to talk things out, and later that day, he returned to Hogwarts and renewed his pledge of loyalty to Dumbledore and the side of the Light. He had been so ashamed of himself in the aftermath, so overwhelmed with guilt, that it wasn’t until Duggins’s wife passed away a few years later that he got back in touch with him. It was a further six months before they met again, although the relationship resumed as if he had only been away on holiday.

Nearly a year went by before he found out about Duggins’ accident, in spite of the fact that the two of them played chess once a month. They had long been in the habit of calling out their moves, the pieces following their directions magically across the board, and Duggins moved effortlessly around his house, so his disability had not been immediately obvious. He became aware of it only when he was asked to bring some basic potions on one of his visits, things a potions master would always brew for himself. Duggins trivialized the incident and they never spoke of it again – he had to resort to Bramble for the few details the house elf was willing to share. All he knew was that Duggins had been momentarily inattentive to a potion he had been brewing.

Always an intuitive wizard, Duggins became even more so after his accident. He never asked what Voldemort required of him or what he did as a spy, but the wizard somehow knew whenever he was injured. There was always an owl pecking at the infirmary window after the worst of the punishments he suffered, and Madam Pomfrey got used to seeing it hanging around. Sometimes it arrived before he did – indeed, it was because she saw it waiting on the window ledge late one morning that she sent Hagrid out to look for him, since he hadn’t yet appeared in the infirmary. On that occasion, he was found collapsed on the edge of the forest with a punctured lung. That owl – Duggins, really – had saved his life.

As he looked around the lab that had served as a model for the one he had at school, he permitted himself a small smile. He had his life back. It had taken twenty years, but his life was his own again, and damn if he wouldn’t make the most of it. He had made Hermione a promise and he wouldn’t let her down. He owed it to Duggins, too, but most of all, it owed it to himself. When they returned to Hogwarts, he would begin writing up his research on the nerve regeneration potion and submit it for publication.

Bramble, who had been sitting quietly on a stool in a corner, suddenly cleared his throat, interrupting his reminiscences. He had been gone about forty minutes, enough time for Hermione to have finished her chat with Duggins if he was reading Bramble correctly. He thanked the elf as the magical creature doused the lights and locked up behind him. As he approached the study, he caught the last snippets of conversation.

“Good, good,” Duggins was saying. “You are going to have a terrible time keeping him in line, Miss Granger,” he said conspiratorially, “but I think you can handle him.”

She was snickering just as he came into the room and he arched a brow, which reduced her giggling to a knowing smile instead. A large whiskey was waiting next to the chess board, which was set up for play. Hermione got up from his chair, gave him back the notebook, and made herself at home on the sofa, opening one of several books she had in her hands, texts that had clearly come from Duggins’s own considerable collection. As he savored the drink and the conversation, he occasionally glanced over to her. Eventually, she fell asleep. When she started to snore ever so lightly, his lips twitched in amusement.

“She’s an extraordinary witch, Severus,” Duggins said softly, as his bishop advanced on the board, “a real credit to you.”

Severus looked up. “You are quite mistaken in that,” he said, his voice full of regret. “Whatever her talents, they were never nurtured by me – it’s all her doing, I assure you,” he said remorsefully, countering the bishop’s move. 

“She has a natural aptitude, certainly, but nevertheless I see _your_ hand in her ideas and in the way she approaches the subject – she absorbed more than you realize.” With a wave of his hand, he took one of Severus’s pawns.

He tried to tamp down his ire over Hermione’s decision to work on altering his potion, as well as his acute disappointment at not being able to direct her research, but nothing slipped by the old wizard.

“We spend our lives engaged in the _great search_ – the potion that will make our names – but in truth, whatever fame we manage to achieve is never ours alone,” he observed sagely. “All of us stand on the shoulders of giants, build on the work of those remarkable potioneers who came before us, and we in our turn must lift up those who follow in our footsteps. I cannot tell you what we spoke of, but I will say this – her project is ambitious and if it succeeds, as I think it will, the resulting potion will have far-reaching consequences. It has the potential to _change_ lives – for the better – and you will have had a major role in that. Her success will also be _yours_ , as yours has been mine.”

Severus said nothing, letting Duggins’s words seep into him. Then he called for his rook to take his mentor’s pawn. Duggins quickly countered and Severus surveyed the board.

“One of the hardest things I’ve had to learn in my many years,” Duggins continued, “is letting go of my apprentices. But the compensation – seeing them succeed beyond even their wildest expectations – has more than balanced it out,” he said kindly. Severus continued to stare at the board, finally summoning the rook across the chequered spaces, endangering the white king.

“She also told me about your more personal arrangement. You’re doing the right thing – the _brave_ thing,” Duggins said quietly, inclining his head ever so slightly in her direction, “giving her the space to think about what she wants from life . . . and a life partner.”

Severus still could not articulate his swirling thoughts, but knew the wizard intuitively understood his fears.

“And I think it’s good that you’re thinking about those things as well,” Duggins continued. “I know you are afraid,” he went on, “but your life isn’t a chess game anymore, moved about by two egomaniacs – you are playing for _yourself_ this time. This is your chance at getting it _right_.” Duggins moved his king out of danger.

Severus couldn’t look away from the old man’s face.

“It’s your move,” Duggins said knowingly, raising his dark, unseeing eyes to his former apprentice.


	7. Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry seeks a bit of comfort from Hermione, and of course Severus is there to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all, sorry about not posting last week. Work had been crazy and naturally I had a monster migraine Saturday morning, the effects of which lasted for several days. I am better, now, and as I've said before, the story is finished and if I miss a posting it's because I'm ill. There is something that would really help make me feel better, though . . . . ; )
> 
> Next week's chapter title is Ron.

**Harry**

Now that her apprenticeship had formally begun, Hermione was kept so busy that the days simply sped by in a blur. It seemed as though her every waking moment was spent engaged in some edifying activity – assisting and sometimes teaching the sixth and seventh-year potions classes, brewing in the lab or in class, and tending to the potions garden, over which a greenhouse had finally been built. In between she was frequently waylaid and dragged off to execute some unexpected assignment, like whipping up a potion without the benefit of having the directions for it. In those instances, her near photographic memory stood her in good stead, as did her ability to work quickly under pressure, since her response was almost always timed. Nor was it unusual for her to be shepherded to the potions storeroom where she was swiftly blindfolded by an almost sadistically gleeful potions master who then thrust containers of various ingredients under her nose in rapid succession for her to identify. Sometimes he’d start with those that had little or no scent to them and work his way up to the more _pungent_ ones, but sometimes he’d hit her with something really foul and go in the other direction, which was more difficult because the worst smells tended to linger and overwhelm the lighter aromas. He spared no criticism when she got it wrong, or even when she vomited – he never began one of these sessions without a bucket close to hand.

“Why can’t I have an anti-nausea potion before we start these little _games_?” she asked wearily as she slumped against the shelves after heaving up her lunch during one particularly grueling session.

“Your examiners will give you a counter agent before you begin this portion of the exam – you should note that they’ll be relentless, worse than me, even,” he said informatively.

She eyed him tiredly. “No one could be worse than _you_ ,” she commented jadedly as she carefully made her way out of the storeroom on wobbly legs. As he watched her go, he wanted to call her back, hold her until the roiling stopped, but he wouldn’t be doing her any favors if he did, so he merely followed behind to make sure she didn’t actually keel over.

At the end of these exercises she had to identify potions that used the various ingredients she had been presented with and then prepare some of them. At first, she could only pair a couple of ingredients at a time to a potion, but increasingly she was able to list potions that used three or four components. On one occasion she cited a potion that used six of the ingredients and a second one that used the remaining five.

Overall, the assignments he devised were demanding, relentless . . . and _exactly_ what she needed, she was forced to concede. In the evenings at dinner, he rendered his daily assessment of her performance, and did so well within the hearing of his colleagues, who dared not interrupt him. Initially it was pretty demoralizing – praise was faint since there were more failures than successes, but it was slowly starting to balance out.

What she really lived for, though, were her evenings and especially the weekends, when she could give over all of her time without interruptions to researching how she wanted to adjust the nerve regeneration potion. She had a pass to the restricted section of the library, which she could use at any time, day or night, and she frequently worked at Severus’s dining table when she needed access to his collection. She kept in regular contact with Duggins, by owl and sometimes by floo, but was discreet about it, knowing how much it irked Severus that he wasn’t involved. She had identified four possible injuries to target, and anticipated being ready to begin experiments in the lab after Halloween to determine which one actually to focus on for her project, but she had to get through the holiday first. They _both_ did. She felt for Harry at this time of year but it was Severus that she really worried about.

He had never much cared for Halloween – jack’o lanterns that reeked of burned pumpkin within twenty-minutes, fake spider webs strewn up at head-height so he walked into every one of them, and ghoulish ditties performed down the decades with far too much enthusiasm by Flitwick’s choir – but since Lily’s death he absolutely loathed it, hated it _more_ , he thought, than probably even the boy-who-lived. The only pleasure he took in it was contemplating how every Death Eater would have had a _stroke_ had they realized how very _Muggle_ it all was.

He drew his cloak tightly around him as he made his way to the apparition point. There was a hum coming from the Room of Requirement’s dining hall where that year’s Halloween festivities were being held. Minerva had presented him with two options – accept his former student’s invitation or join his colleagues as a chaperone. Dinner at the Black family mausoleum edged out staying at Hogwarts, though only because Hermione would be there. Mercifully, it was going be the last of their morbid gatherings marking the death of Potter’s parents – the word _closure_ was on everyone’s lips but he wondered if he or the young man would ever fully achieve that state. The only comfort he had at that time of year was that he had at least managed to fulfill his commitment to keeping Lily’s son safe – _that_ debt, at least, _had_ been paid.

He spied Minerva waiting for him in the courtyard – she was pulling on her gloves as he breezed past her.

“Let’s get this _bloody_ thing over with,” he said dryly as he pressed onward, leaving the headmistress nearly sprinting to catch up.

“I am glad to see you are approaching this with the right attitude,” she commented, aiming her words at his back. “Isn’t Hermione joining us?”

“She went over this morning to – as she put it – help get things ready,” he sneered over his shoulder, though what that actually entailed he couldn’t for the life of him say. The house was beyond cheerless – no amount of decoration would change that – and he understood that Molly Weasley was seeing to the food, whatever the status of her daughter’s relationship with the host of tonight’s meal might currently be. No, Hermione had gone early to have private time with Potter and Weasley and he was well out of it.

 “You _are_ going to behave, aren’t you?” she frowned as she caught up with him. He arched a brow but otherwise reserved comment. She sighed and took the arm he held out to her.

It was drizzling as they made their way across the street to Grimmauld Place – he opened the door for Minerva and followed in behind. The distinctive smell of mildew and rotting wallpaper hit him like a wave, as it always did. The damp made the place feel colder than it was and the tall, narrow entryway had a soporific effect. As they passed the portrait of Mrs. Black, he heard hissing.

“ _Traitor!_ ”

Severus stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around. He shrugged off Minerva’s hand, approaching the portrait and glaring ominously – he had had enough of that old crone’s bile.

“That’s right, you howling _hag_ , I betrayed the Dark Master, saw him disintegrate into a million pieces before they blew away in the wind like the _dirt_ they were. And if you don’t shut your gob I’m going to brew some magical turpentine and erase your filthy mouth. _Just_ your mouth. For all eternity you’ll watch the defenders of the Light pass back and forth without being able to say a single fucking word. Your choice,” he said menacingly, tapping his wand in his palm. Mrs. Black, who had been spluttering her outrage, scowled and pointedly looked away.

He turned and trailed behind Minerva down to the kitchen where Molly was busy ordering her large brood to get out the serving dishes and set the table without breaking anything in the process – “No, dear, the dessert spoon goes at the top of the plate, not at the side,” she said, instructing Fleur in the Weasley version of fine dining. Arthur and Kingsley were sensibly at the end of the room, charged with opening the wine but in reality enjoying their whiskeys – he and Minerva joined them. Scanning the room as he took the first sip, he noted the absence of the _Golden Trio_. He curled his lip reflexively.

The three of them had been catching up for the last hour in the library. Her friends listened politely – mostly – to what it was like being their professor’s apprentice, although Harry muttered _git_ at one point, which was followed by Ron’s _tosser_. She couldn’t blame them, really, though their insults were said with a lot less venom than they had been before the war. When the subject turned to auror training, Harry took the lead – Ron’s contributions were minimal and he smiled only weakly now and again at some of the mishaps Harry detailed. Eventually, he excused himself politely, saying that his mother would soon be demanding his presence in the kitchen and that he might as well head her off.

Hermione was gracious about it, but she looked quizzically at Harry once he had left the room.

“Don’t mind Ron – he’s just having . . . .” He trailed off.

“Having _what_ , Harry?” she prompted when he didn’t continue.

“Um, well, he’s having some . . . some _difficulties_ with auror training,” he hedged.

“Difficulties? What kind of difficulties?” she asked, puzzled at his comment.

Harry looked into the fire, clearly reluctant to talk about it.

“Harry?” she pressed.

“It’s not my place to say, really,” he stammered, refusing to meet her eye.

“Harry – what’s going on?” she insisted. “Has something happened? Has he done something _wrong_?”

“No, no it’s nothing like that,” he quickly replied

“Then what is it?” When Harry didn’t immediately reply, she got up, knocked his feet off the coffee table and sat down in their place, leaning forward, almost touching his knees. “Harry?”

Finally, he turned to look at her.

“He doesn’t want to do it anymore. It’s not that he isn’t capable,” he hurried on, “he’s one of the best trainees the program has seen in years, but he . . . he can’t face the possibility of . . . of having to kill anyone . . . _again_.”

She sat back a bit and let his words seep into her. “Well, I can certainly understand that,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he replied, the emotion clear in his voice.

“Then why doesn’t he just quit?”

He smiled slightly. “It not easy for a guy to walk away from something he’s said he wanted to do for eons – especially not _this_ kind of job.”

She sighed audibly. “You mean it’s a guy thing – he believes people will think he’s less than a man if he decides to chuck it in.”

“Something like that,” he conceded. “And of course he doesn’t want to disappoint his parents – they’ve talked about little else since he started training.”

“What have you said to him?”

Now he looked her straight in the eye. “I told him that we just fought a _fucking_ war and _won_ – against _all_ the odds – and that he should go after what he _really_ wants to do with his life and _fuck_ what people think about it,” Harry said emphatically.

“And what is it that he really wants to do?”

“Dunno, doesn’t matter, just as long as it’s something he has a passion for – life is _way_ too short not to,” he replied determinedly.

She thought about it for a moment. “There’s always Quidditch.”

A smile slowly spread across his face. “There’s _always_ Quidditch!”

She snickered, and then quieted. “How . . . how have _you_ been . . . with training, that is?” she asked somewhat apprehensively.  

He studied his nails.

“Harry?”

“It’s fine,” he blurted out as he raised his head. She looked at him questioningly. “Seriously,” he said, leaning forward and putting a hand on her knee, “it’s been _fine_.” In spite of his assurances, though, it just didn’t ring true to her.

“Harry,” she said, reaching for his hand, “we’ve know each other for a very, _very_ long time, now – we’ve quite literally been through hell and back – and I know that whatever it is, it _isn’t_ fine . . . .”

His eyes misted over under her scrutiny, and he clasped his other hand to hers and steadied himself before speaking. “I still feel pretty . . . _driven_ , I guess,” he quietly confessed. “It’s . . . it’s like things aren’t quite . . . _over_ , yet. It’s hard to explain.” There was a sad wistfulness about him that made her breath catch – at that moment, he reminded her more of the adolescent he had been than the man he now was. “I just feel like I . . . I _have_ to keep going, _have_ keep chasing the bad guys,” he said poignantly, his eyes glistening in the light of the fire.

“Oh, _Harry_ ,” she said, struggling to keep her emotions in check. She pulled him forward into her arms. “It’s over, now,” she cooed, but he wouldn’t be consoled.

“No, Hermione, it _isn’t_ – maybe it won’t _ever_ be,” he choked into her shoulder, “not for me, anyway,” he whispered. She rubbed his back a few times and then gently pushed him away to look into his face.

“It’s going to take some time, Harry, just give it some time,” she said soothingly. “I’m not saying that you’re suddenly going to stop thinking about it everyday . . . .”

“Every _minute_ ,” he interjected, quickly running his sleeve across his face.

“. . . or that the nightmares are going to go away in a week’s time. But they _will_ fade, things _will_ get better, and in the meantime, if the job helps you exorcise the demons, then . . . then okay, but you shouldn’t be trying to work through all this on your own,” she counseled. 

“You mean I should be talking to Ginny,” he sniffled discreetly.

“I think you should be talking to a _lot_ of people,” she replied, worried at the lost look in his face. “The Ministry has brought in some professionals to help – I think you should take advantage of that.”

“There are only two people who _really_ know what it was like,” he replied dismissively, “you and Ron, and right now, Ron already has enough on his plate.”  

“You might try talking to Sev . . . to Professor Snape,” she offered hesitantly. “He, more than anyone, would know what you’ve been through and . . . and how to deal with it.”

He thought about it for a moment and then smiled wryly. “Yeah, I suppose you might be right. Ironic, isn’t it?” he laughed ruefully, almost to himself. “Who would have thought that the old bat of the dungeons and I actually had so much in common?” But she couldn’t find it in her to be amused, not over this.

His face visibly relaxed as he contemplated his best friend. “I’d rather just talk to you – it’s so much easier,” he smiled unselfconsciously, raising his hand and running a finger down her cheek. He briefly paused, as if something had crossed his mind – he slowly inched forward, and she found herself torn. She had never thought of him in that way, and had he not just opened up to her, she might have stopped him, yet the bond they shared wouldn’t allow her to do that. She had to let him realize for himself that his current circumstances – his need for comfort – were dictating his present actions.

He raised his other hand to side of her face. His soft lips barely touched hers, and he didn’t otherwise press his advantage – there was no tongue or moan of contentment, and after a second, he shifted partly away, letting his forehead rest against hers. Then he started to snort and she couldn’t help but snicker in return. They both broke apart, laughing and giggling harder, wordlessly acknowledging that the connection between them was most certainly _not_ sexual.

“I hate to interrupt so _touching_ a scene,” a tall, thin figure silhouetted in the doorway sneered, “but Molly demands your presence immediately for dinner.” She caught only the last vestiges of his robe as he swiftly turned on his heel.

“So _that’s_ the guy you want me to talk to?” Harry smiled and shook his head.

They stood up at the same time, brushing against each other – awkwardly, they pulled apart and he gestured for her to precede him. Out in the hall, he stopped her before descending to the kitchen.

“I’ve never asked, since I didn’t want to pry, but the rumors . . . about you and Snape,” he stammered, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“It’s . . . it’s complicated,” she said apologetically.  

“Yeah, I suppose it would be,” he replied, slowly grinning at her. She punched him playfully on the arm, and he ducked before putting an arm around her shoulder. “Well, I just hope I haven’t landed you in it,” he apologized.

“No more than usual,” she responded, her voiced tinged with resignation.

Given the stony expression on Severus’s face when she sat down across from him at the table – he wouldn’t actually look at her – she knew only too well _exactly_ what his thoughts were about their little interlude, but no one else seemed to notice the tension between them, not even the host of the gathering, who solemnly and rather reluctantly took his place at the head of the table.

Dinner was raucous, as every meal that included the Weasley clan was, but the frivolity was a bit forced this time around, and before the pudding was served, solemn toasts were made. The first was to Fred, which immediately brought tears to the women present, while the Weasley men pressed their nails into their hands to help them choke back the emotion. There was a collective tribute made to others who had fallen – Madeye, Tonks and Lupin were mentioned by name – before Harry rose to his feet and held his glass aloft in order to make the last tribute to his parents. It was simple and to the point.

“You were – and still _are_ – much loved and missed,” he just managed to get out. As everyone raised their glasses once more, Molly leaned over to hug the young man. Hermione chanced a quick look at the man opposite her, but his eyes were focused downwards and she could discern nothing from his severe expression. In the bustle to serve round the dessert, Severus got up and helped himself to another whiskey before slipping out, leaving them to their coffee – everyone pretended as though they hadn’t noticed him leave. Harry pushed the apple cobbler around his plate for a few minutes to be polite, but Hermione could tell that his mind was on other things. When he excused himself, Ginny, who was sitting next to her, rose to follow him, but she stayed her friend – she knew precisely where he was heading, and it was important that he have that conversation with their potions professor.

The library was chilly – the fire that had been burning so _cozily_ when he interrupted Potter bussing Hermione was now only red embers. He threw on a couple of logs and settled into the high-backed chair next to the hearth, the same chair that Potter had been sitting in when he . . . . _Blast it all to Hades and back!_ The fucking scene was on a loop, constantly playing in his head. He had been tempted to go straight back to Hogwarts after he had caught them, but it would have created a kerfuffle if he left abruptly after everyone had already seen him. Not that he especially cared, but this was supposed to be the last of these gatherings, a symbolic burying of the dead, and everyone needed to be present to see those ghosts laid to rest. As the toasts were being made, he had fleetingly wondered if his name would have been included if he hadn’t survived. He feared the answer was probably _yes_. He could see it all in his mind’s eye – St. Potter beating his chest and wailing his remorse for having maligned him during his school years. The remembrance wouldn’t have been about him at all, but rather about the boy wonder.

As he was ruminating, he heard the door open and lightly close. He expected it to be Hermione – come to make some excuse for her earlier behavior – and was irked when the _wunderkind_ himself quietly took the chair opposite him.

“Professor?” he asked hesitantly.

“Potter,” Severus acknowledged against his will as he sipped his drink.

“I thought I might find you up here,” Harry continued nervously.

“I’m _always_ up here,” he sneered, hoping that young man might leave him in peace.

Harry fidgeted with his hands. The silence between them hung heavily, and Severus dreaded the  angst and ennui that he knew was still to come.

“I thought this anniversary would be different,” Harry began, leaning forward in the chair, his elbows braced on his knees.

“Why on _earth_ would you think _that_?” he scowled.

“The war is over, justice has been served, our world saved . . . I just thought I’d feel . . . _different_ ,” he confessed. “I don’t feel as though it’s . . . it’s _over_ yet.”

Severus couldn’t help eyeing the young man with the barest smidgen of sympathy. Of all the people in the house at that moment, probably only he knew exactly what his former student was going through, and the irony of that wasn’t lost on him. Under other circumstances he would have told his former student to fucking pull himself together and sent him on his way with a condescending wave, but his role in the death of the boy’s mother made him keep his tongue.

“You’ve lived with this loss for a long time, felt it refreshed with each brush stroke of the war – you haven’t been able to achieve any perspective. Give it time, Potter – it will get better,” he advised dismissively, hoping it would be enough for the boy to leave him alone.

“I don’t want to forget them, what they sacrificed,” he said, almost imploringly.

Severus jerked his head away from the fire to stare at the young man. “Is _that_ what you’re afraid is going to happen?” he asked, incredulous at such a preposterous notion.

“I don’t know,” Harry hesitantly replied, “I . . . I guess, in a way.”

“Oh for the love of _Merlin_ ,” he spat. His former student looked down as he rubbed his knuckles. Severus sighed in exasperation, took a hefty gulp of his drink, and then leaned forward in the chair, clunking the tumbler loudly on the coffee table. “Look, Potter,” he began in his best professorial voice, “you have grieved their loss every day of your life. Being at Hogwarts, fighting the war, only intensified those feelings. Each day was a reminder of what you had lost, each day its own memorial. It may seem bizarre, but obviously it kept them alive for you. But the war’s over, and now that you no longer have to fight . . . .”

“. . . they might slip away from me,” Harry interrupted with a whisper.

“Bollocks,” he swiftly retorted.

Harry looked up, shocked at his vehemence.

“Is this why you’ve been _recklessly_ throwing yourself into your training?” he asked harshly.

“What . . . . ?” Harry sputtered, sitting upright.

“Kinglsey told Arthur and me that you’ve been acting rashly when taken out into the field, that you’ve been unnecessarily aggressive. That sort of behavior isn’t going to keep the memory of your parents alive, it’s just going to get you killed – and probably whoever has the misfortune of being partnered with you.”

Harry’s eyes flashed with fury. “How _dare_ you! What makes you think you know anything about it?” he challenged.

“Who sought _who_ out here, Potter?” he seethed. “Why did you do that, by the way? Because I might know something about grief? Guilt? Remorse? For once in your life you’d be right if you did.” 

Harry’s mouth opened and closed several times under his former professor’s harsh gaze. Severus sat back in his chair.

“So . . . how . . . how did you deal with it, all these years?” the young man stammered.

“ _Not well_ , as you _surely_ must have noticed,” he replied scathingly.

“But you managed to . . . to _function_ – I need to learn how to do that,” he stated with some deliberation.

Severus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I really don’t have any advice, Potter, except to say that you just try and get on with living your life. And when it becomes too much – and it _will_ , now and again – you spend time with the people who matter to you. It seems to me that Miss Weasley – not to mention Molly and Arthur – have a lot to offer in that regard. You’d be a _fool_ not to take advantage of their care and concern.”

Harry nodded once and stood, turning to the door.

“And Potter?”

Harry turned. “Yeah?”

Severus considered him over the rim of his glass. “You _won’t_ forget them. And in time, remembering them will cease to hurt . . . quite . . . so much.”

Harry nodded again. “I’m sorry, you know,” the young man said.

“For what?” he asked a bit testily.

“For the way they treated you – Sirius . . . my parents – it . . . it wasn’t right,” he finally managed, straightening himself.  

“No, Mr. Potter, it _wasn’t_ . . . but it also wasn’t entirely their fault, either,” he quietly conceded.

“It still doesn’t make it right. And it was wrong – _very_ wrong – the way that Dumbledore manipulated you.”

“Yes, well, that’s something _else_ we both have in common – the headmaster moved all of us around the chess board at his pleasure.”

“You should also know,” Harry continued, “that the kiss you saw earlier this evening – it wasn’t what you thought it was.”

“And what do you imagine I think it was?” he said bitingly.

“I don’t . . . _we_ don’t think of each other in that way. I was looking for comfort and did something I shouldn’t have. It wouldn’t have gone any further – she would have hexed me _long_ before that, for _sure_ ,” he said, smiling warmly at the thought.

“ _Goodnight_ , Potter,” he said bluntly, hoping against hope that the young man realized that their conversation was most definitely at an end. He did.

As he sat there staring into the grate, he conceded that he already knew – at least intellectually – that the two of them weren’t involved with each other, but seeing young Potter kissing Hermione was just too much like watching Potter senior snogging Lily and it had made his temper flare. The lesson about distinguishing between things that merely annoyed him and those that were an actual threat was continuing to be a hard one to learn.

When Harry returned to the kitchen, Hermione was relieved to see him looking a little more like his old self. She took it as a good sign that he sat down next to Ginny and gently placed his hand on top of hers. Again, everyone in the room pretended not to notice, but Molly’s always high-energy jollity went up a notch at the sight of them holding hands and exchanging quiet looks.

“Hermione?” She turned her head at Minerva’s voice. “Are you coming back to Hogwarts tonight or staying here?”

She cast a quick glance towards Harry and Ginny. “I think I’ll go back. Let me just check on Severus and see if . . . . ”

“No need to do that,” she interrupted, “he’s _always_ ready.” Minerva gave Ginny permission to stay over with her parents, who weren’t yet ready to leave, which meant she’d have the rest of the evening with Harry, and Sunday as well, since he’d no doubt be invited to the Burrow for breakfast and lunch.

Their goodbyes made, Hermione went up to the library, knocked, and entered. He looked up – he hadn’t moved since his conversation with Potter.

“We’re ready to leave – Minerva’s waiting at the door if you want to come with us,” she said nervously.

He vanished his tumbler to the kitchen, and got up. When he reached the door she wouldn’t let him by.

“It wasn’t what you think,” she said softly.

He sighed. “Yes, I know,” he said stiltedly. He raised a finger to stroke down her cheek but checked himself, curling it back into his fist before gesturing for her to proceed.

Severus apparated them back to Hogwarts and the three of them walked back up to the castle. The student celebrations were still going and Minerva took her leave to make sure everyone was shooed off to their beds. Severus walked Hermione back to her rooms. They didn’t speak the whole, long way. She offered to let him use her floo to go back to his rooms, but he declined – the walk back to the dungeons would help settle his mind – and she stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. She was about to turn away, when he tugged on her arm, leaned down, and returned the peck.

“Good night, Hermione,” he said softly.

“Good night, Severus,” she replied before disappearing behind her door. 

 

 


	8. Ron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas at the Burrow. Ron's shares his reservations about the auror program with Hermione - and inadvertently with Severus as well. However, the potions professor is infinitely more concerned with George's outrageous behavior than he is with Hermione's former boyfriend, or even with news about a rash of serious attacks the Ministry is investigating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was Ron's turn. Next week's chapter title is George. If you are enjoying this, do let me know - it's getting a bit depressing weather and work-wise in my neck of the woods and I need some cheering up.

**Ron**

Mercifully, he did not speak directly of Harry’s kiss and there was no noticeable change in his demeanor, although she knew that he wouldn’t have been pleased to see her lip-locked with the son of the very man who had spirited away his first love – it must have seemed like old times in the worst of ways. She tried to make up for it by remaining open and affectionate even as he continued to accost her at unpredictable moments and haul her off either to the potions storeroom to sniff ingredients or to his lab to brew under examination conditions.

She had started her experiments to determine what kind of nerve damage she wanted to target in her master’s project, utilizing the potions classroom to do it during the evenings and on the weekends since Severus needed his personal lab for his own work. Sunday afternoons, she flooed Duggins to discuss what she had done the previous week and what she had set up for the next to come. Progress was slow, but within a month, she had made her decision and, with Madam Pomfrey’s assistance, had arranged to meet with the healers at St. Mungo's to identify those patients on their rolls who would be willing to serve as her proverbial guinea pigs.

She spent the first couple of weeks of December at the magical hospital and at the homes of willing participants taking careful medical histories of her volunteers, most though by no means all of whom had suffered their wounds fighting in the last battle. It took more out of her than she had expected. In her research, she had been concentrating solely on the technicalities of repairing nerve damage, but now, coming face to face with the _human_ dimensions of those injuries, the enormity of what she was attempting hit her hard. These weren’t experimental rats – these were people whose lives had been completely upturned and who were now looking to her as their last hope. It was an awesome responsibility and it tempered her perspective – her project was so much more than a mere stepping stone to her mastery.

She desperately wanted to talk about the emotional aspects of her work, but her choices were limited. Severus was out of the question if only because he had to keep his distance for professional reasons, not that he was ever the sort to share his _feelings_ about the situations of those who took his healing potions. Quite the contrary. His bed-side manner was so completely in keeping with his character – which was to say appallingly bad – that St. Mungo's had barred him from personally examining patients who needed his specialist brews unless they were unconscious. It was only because Duggins and Madam Pomfrey had assured them that he wouldn’t be following Hermione around the wards as she did her work that they agreed to give her access to their patients and facilities.

Not that Severus enjoyed being summoned to the school infirmary any better than he did the magical hospital, believing as he did that most of the accidents students suffered were their own fault, which, she had to admit, was mostly true – if they were stupid enough to subject themselves to the outlandish dares of their peers then they got what they deserved. Severus referred to such incidents as _life’s little lessons_ and was of the opinion that students should learn them well, though he had no real expectation that they actually would. Which made it all the more remarkable to her that he could rise to the occasion when necessary. He had, after all, examined not only her and Justin Finch-Fletchley when they had been petrified, but Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris as well. And he had come at a run when summoned by Dumbledore to Ron’s beside after the young man had been poisoned, although it was also the case that the potion master beat a hasty retreat when the romantic entanglements started to play out in front of him.

Nor did she want to speak to Duggins of her emotional reaction to the people she would be working with, so she confided in Madam Pomfrey, who sagely reminded her over cups of tea that compassion was all well and good so long as it didn’t paralyze her, because these patients needed her skills infinitely more than her sympathy – they had family and friends who would tend to their personal requirements. It was a much needed perspective.

Christmas provided her with a bit of respite from her work. Given that she planned on taking off only the day itself, and the fact that Shacklebolt also expected her to attend the Ministry celebration gala at New Year’s, she decided against going to Australia – she’d just be getting there when she would have to leave. Her parents were disappointed but also understanding of the demands the apprenticeship put on her time. Instead, she planned to spend Christmas with her friends, this time at the Burrow, and a like invitation had been extended to Severus as well.

“I hadn’t planned on it, no,” he replied brusquely to her question about actually going.

“Why ever not? Everyone’s going to be there,” she informed him.

“Surely _not_ – magical extensions aside, I don’t image that the whole of wizarding Britain can fit in even Arthur’s mishmash of a house _or_ under those Muggle marques he likes to erect,” he commented snidely.

“You know what I meant,” she retorted. When he didn’t respond, she carried on. “It’s going to be Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, of course, Ginny, Ron, Bill and Fleur – Fleur’s pregnant, by the way,” she added, not that he was the slightest bit interested. “Charlie’s coming too, in light of the fact that . . . well, that this will be the first Christmas without Fred,” she added softly. “Poor George,” she continued reflectively. “It’s going to be hard on his parents, but I just don’t know _how_ George will bear it.”

The mention of the surviving twin gave him pause.

“Minerva’s supposed to be there, and Kingsley too – with his latest girlfriend,” she almost giggled, but Severus’s thoughts were still on George. “Neville’s spending the morning with his grandmother, but they’re coming in the afternoon – both of them,” she said a bit apprehensively. She would have gone on, but she didn’t want to put him _completely_ off the idea with the information that Harry would be in attendance as well. Besides, it was clear that he wasn’t really listening to her anymore.

“Severus?” she asked. “Severus, are you paying attention?”

“I don’t know – have you _finished_ , yet?” he had enough presence of mind to reply.

“Yes,” she said tightly.

“Then I will go. _But_ ,” he held up his hand preventing her from getting too excited, “not until the afternoon. I do _not_ need to see what imbecilic gifts your friends have bestowed upon you, nor do I want to be on the receiving end of one of Molly’s monstrous knitting accidents she keeps on hand for extra guests on occasions such as this.”

She stepped around the desk and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. He sloughed her off. “Now if you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing to the essays in front of him, “go and be cheerful somewhere else so I can finish these.”

She practically skipped out of his study, and when she had disappeared into the hearth, he set down his quill. The thought of _poor George_ needing comfort and support had been more than enough to convince him to go.

He could hear them the instant he apparated to the Burrow’s back garden. It was a low roar punctuated by high squeals, though whether it came from one of the Weasley men or the young women in attendance he couldn’t say. The noise practically blasted him off his feet when Charlie opened the door.

“Professor Snape!” he gaped in surprised, but he quickly covered himself. “Hey, everyone,” he jovially called behind him, “it’s everyone’s favorite potions professor!”

The racket came to an abrupt halt as everyone turned to confirm that it was indeed their normally unsociable professor at the door – they looked at him as though he had three heads. But while the welcome was muted among a few in the room – Augusta Longbottom _always_ looked like she had just eaten a prune – the festivities recommenced almost immediately, the discarded wrapping paper being wadded up and thrown every which way by the younger people present. Hermione grinned at him before being overwhelmed by a squall of paper wads.

Molly then burst into the room, a ubiquitous wooden spoon in hand, announcing that dinner was ready and that they had exactly thirty seconds to get to the table because she wasn’t going eat cold gravy. When she saw him her eyes lighted up in surprise and she bounded over to give him a hug, which he accepted stiffly. When she muttered something about there being a present for him under the tree, Arthur steered her away, reminding her of the gravy.

He sat across from Hermione, who was sandwiched in between Harry and George. Predictably enough, Quidditch dominated the conversation among the young men while Ginny chatted with Fleur about her pregnancy – he took sadistic pleasure in Potter’s uncomfortable expression each time the Weasley girl looked up at him expectantly. He’d lay any odds that she would be with child thirty-seconds after graduating. Arthur and Shacklebolt talked shop at one end of the table until Molly, who had been hovering to make sure everyone’s plate was filled to the rafters, finally interrupted, telling them that politics wasn’t a subject for a holiday table, jerking her head knowingly at Kingsley’s date – a lovely witch named Ursula – who was politely acting as though she found all of it absolutely riveting. Hermione sneaked him a few glances, but otherwise no one apart from her gave him much notice, which was fine with him. She, too, didn’t have much to contribute to the conversations, given that she wasn’t interested in sports, babies, or Ministry politics. But he did note that she seemed rather concerned each time she looked in the Weasley boy’s direction – he was distinctly subdued, more so even than George, who at least was trying.

There was a welcome interval between dinner and pudding – unsurprisingly, Potter, Longbottom, and most of the younger Weasley men left the table in order to go flop in chairs in the other room while Molly and the other women – including Ursula, gamely enough, though _not_ Augusta Longbottom – cleared everything away. Arthur retrieved the whiskey bottle from the side board and poured it out for those who still lingered at the table. He hoped that Hermione would join them when she was finished, but he was decidedly chagrined that she was still keeping an eye on her former amour. All evening, his former student had been very much on the periphery of things, smiling weakly now and again but otherwise quite removed from all of the action. And then he made that removal physical – he slipped into the kitchen and out the back door. Hermione had seen him leave and clearly wanted to run after him, but sat down at the end of the table instead. After fidgeting for ten minutes, she discreetly followed him outside.

Across the yard, she saw a light on in Arthur’s hut and she made her way over to it through the dusting of snow on the ground. She peeked in the window and watched for a few seconds as Ron tinkered with one of his dad’s radios. The door creaked as she opened it and stepped inside. She was almost immediately enveloped in the warming charm that he had cast.

“Come to drag me back to the festivities, Mione?” he asked, laughing quietly without even turning around. 

“Do you _need_ dragging back?” she countered, pulling up a stool to sit next to him.

“Nah,” he said, but only halfheartedly. “I just needed a quiet moment. My family can be a bit overwhelming at times – loud, nosy . . . . ”

“. . . warm, comforting – that’s what _I’ve_ always liked about them anyway,” she confessed soothingly.

He huffed in amusement, but his face was pensive as he turned on the radio. Muggle Christmas carols of the sad and wistful variety were playing and he quickly turned it off. They sat there quietly.  

“I hear you are trying out for the Chuddley Cannons after New Year’s,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. 

He smiled wanly.

“You . . . you don’t seem very excited about it,” she observed with concern.

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Wasn’t that your secret dream?” she asked.

He picked up some spare radio knobs and began to fiddle with them.

“Dream, yeah, but it was just that, you know? I love Quidditch, don’t get me wrong,” he immediately added, “but I was smart enough to know – admittedly only _just_ – that it would be a limited thing. If I actually got on a team, maybe I’d play for a few years – if I was lucky – but after that . . . . There would always be someone younger, faster, and better right behind me.” He paused. “I always knew that I needed a job, a proper career, when I finished school, something that could support me . . . and, in time, maybe a family,” he observed a bit regretfully. “Dad talked to me about being an auror as a kid, and Harry had already planned on training for it, so I just thought, why not? I mean, I’m good at the physical stuff – fighting, flying, that sort of thing – but once I got into it . . . .” his voice trailed off.

“It wasn’t what you thought it was going to be,” she finished for him.

“Actually, it was pretty much _exactly_ what I thought it was going to be,” he laughed somewhat bitterly before quieting. “After that last battle, when everything was finally over, and our lives weren’t constantly under threat, I was so . . . so fucking _relieved_ that I’d never have to live though anything like that again,” he said with a great sigh. He looked down at his hands, clearing his throat. “Auror training started at the beginning of September, and one of the things they do right away is take candidates out into the field to observe. And I . . . I just . . . I just _hated_ it,” he confessed softly and ashamedly. “I’d had the whole summer to be with mum and dad and Ginny . . . and _George_.” The tears started to form in his eyes. “I was so fucking _thankful_ that I could go to sleep and not wake up to a fucking horcrux hanging around my neck, that I didn’t have to wonder where my next meal was coming from, that I didn’t have to be constantly on my guard in case someone tried to kill me or my friends, that I . . . that I just . . . didn’t . . . have to be responsible for anyone but _myself_ anymore.” His confession had all come out in a whoosh.

“That first week in auror training,” he continued, his voice now starting to shake, “we saw them take down three renegade Death Eaters who were using a couple of Muggles as shields.” A tear started to slip down his face. “A fire-fight erupted and two of the Death Eaters were killed along with . . . along with the young woman who was being held captive. She looked . . .  she kind of looked like . . . Lavender,” he said softly. 

He put the knobs he had been fiddling with in a small box and then leaned his arms on the table, staring at the far side of the shed.

“Right then and there, I decided that being an auror was definitely _not_ for me. I was done with killing people, and done watching others do it as well, but it’s taken me until now to actually hand in my resignation and tell my parents.”

“What did they say?” she asked, knowing _exactly_ what their response would have been but wanting him to say it out loud and start to really take it in.

“They were just as relieved as I was, truth to tell,” he said somewhat heavily. “They didn’t want to lose another son to fucking animals,” he croaked.

Hermione stood and turned him around, taking him into her arms and cradling his head against her chest as he started to cry. He wept so hard she thought he would never stop. But after a few minutes he pushed away, running his sleeve across his face – she handed him a tissue from her pocket and he took it gratefully.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he blew his nose.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she replied softly, brushing his hair across his forehead to get it out of his eyes . . . .

Severus gave it a couple of minutes before he, too, excused himself, claiming the need for some fresh air. The light was on in Arthur’s shed and he followed the footprints in the snow. As he approached the hut, he heard muffled voices. He stepped over to the window and was near enough to hear the last bit of Weasley’s confession, though he wished he hadn’t. He felt for him, he truly did, and so watched with a certain degree of understanding when the young man stood up and enveloped Hermione in a bear hug. But his sympathy evaporated the instant Weasley pulled away and bent down to lay one on his ex-girlfriend.

Severus’s breathing became rapid and harsh, his exhalations condensing in the cold night air and wafting upwards to cloud his vision. But it still couldn’t completely obscure the scene playing out just beyond the window pane he was looking through. He clenched his jaw and stormed back along the path to the house.

She stiffened as Ron’s lips pressed desperately against her. Finally, he pulled back and looked at her with great sadness. “It just isn’t there – _is it_ ,” he stated forlornly.

She shook her head. “No, Ron, it isn’t – I’m sorry.” He released her completely and took a step back. “We’re just so . . . so _different_ ,” she continued. “It would never have worked between us – you know that as well as I do.” He stared at his feet and made no response. She clasped his hands. “But we’re mates, eh?” she soothed, tilting her head to try and make eye contact through the hair that once more had flopped in his face. “For good or bad, through thick and thin, for all times,” she pledged, shaking his hands to get his full attention. At that, he raised his head, nodded, and gave a faint imitation of his trademark goofy smile. He hugged her again, and this time, it was a brotherly embrace.

“Let’s get back – I want some Christmas pudding!” she said, feigning a giggle. At that, his smile turned more genuine. He opened the door for her, but before he could put out the light, she saw a third set of prints in the snow, about the shape of a pair of large, dragon hide boots. She sighed heavily.

“Okay, Mione?” Ron asked as he secured the shed.

“Fine, I’m just cold,” she lied, rubbing her arms and stomping her feet to disguise her dismay while obliterating Severus’s footprints.They hurried into the house and she immediately scanned the room – he was standing with Arthur and Shacklebolt looking none too pleased.

His forbidding scowl softened considerably when she headed for the table for a bit of the pudding that Molly had set out and Weasley wandered off into the front room – he recognized rejection when he saw it. She had spurned him – again – and the corners of his mouth curled slightly upwards at the thought.

“So there have been six attacks so far?” Arthur was asking.

“That we _know_ of,” Shacklebolt confirmed.

“Are they related?” Severus inquired, rejoining the conversation.

“It’s hard to say for sure – we’re certain that one of the victims supported the Dark Lord, two were sympathetic to Order even though they didn’t actually fight, and three seem to have been relatively neutral, at least as far as we can tell,” the Minister informed them.

“Have you investigated their family members, friends, work colleagues?” he pressed.

“It’s underway – even now, a handful of aurors are missing their Christmas dinner,” Shacklebolt replied with some sympathy. “If there is a connection, we’ll soon know for sure.” Arthur nodded sagely, as did Severus, although his attention was being drawn away once more by George’s attempt to feed Hermione her dessert.

“Where did the attacks take place?” he heard Arthur ask.

George – egged on by Bill and Charlie – was tickling Hermione in order to get her to open her mouth, and once she did, he shoved in a small bite, pressing his fingers against her lips a little bit too intimately for his liking. 

“It varied,” Shacklebolt continued, “as did their occupations – there was no connection in that area.”

Seeing that Hermione had eaten her cake without the benefit of any whipped cream, George scooped some up with his finger and it was getting all over Hermione’s face as he attempted to push a finger into her mouth. His heart suddenly raced at the highly sexual image and he was about to leap over the table and yank the red-head away when Shacklebolt pulled on his arm.

“What do you think, Severus?” he asked.

He turned to look at Arthur. “What are your thoughts?” he neatly covered as he tried to control his outrage at the scene unfolding in his peripheral vision.

“Well, it’s sensible for all of us to be on our guard, certainly, but I don’t want to worry Molly or anyone else unnecessarily. Besides, I pity anyone who tries to get a jump on our women.” He slowly grinned and nodded towards the dining room where a full-fledged food fight was in progress – Fleur and Hermione were besting the Weasley boys even though they were outnumbered. Severus ducked just in time to avoid being hit. Arthur wasn’t quite so fortunate, although he didn’t seem to mind, excusing himself to join the fray. Fortunately, Molly appeared in the doorway of the kitchen – backed up by a forbidding Augusta – demanding to know just what it was they all thought they were doing with her Christmas pudding, which she had painstakingly slaved over for _weeks_.

That was his cue to leave the area. He headed for the sitting room but froze when he saw Wealsey sitting dejectedly in a large chair, a throw pillow clutched possessively to his chest and staring morosely into the glowing flames of the hearth.

He quietly backed away and decided to retreat to Arthur’s study, but paused on the threshold. The only thing worse than watching George trying to get Hermione to perform fellatio on his finger – and doing so in front of fucking _everyone_ , who were seemingly oblivious to what was _actually_ going on – was seeing Potter and the Weasley girl engaged in some heavy petting.

He would make his excuses to Hermione and apologies to his hosts another time, but for now, he absolutely had to _get the fuck out_ of the madhouse that was the Weasley home before he seriously blasted someone into the next week.

 


	9. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione makes a dubious wardrobe choice for the Ministry's New Year's celebrations, while Molly ensures that she is paired with George for the evening. Severus isn't the only one who suffers at the twin's antics, although it's all tempered by news of further attacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than usual. Next week's chapter title is Natalia Venena.
> 
> It was a wretched week at work and some cheering up would not go amiss. I want to retire - write full time, go to the gym regularly, and take some walks. Shesh.

**George**

Hermione understood perfectly why he had left the Burrow without a word on Christmas day. Frankly, she was rather surprised at how long he had actually managed to withstand the Weasley hoard. But it was now a week later and they were all meeting up again for more somber reasons – to see in a New Year that _wouldn’t_ include the Dark Lord. None of them thought of the Ministry gathering as a celebration, though, however much it was advertised as such. Indeed, Shacklebolt had come in for more than a little criticism for scheduling it a scant nine months after the last battle, and for a guest list that included a number of high profile people who had supported Voldemort but were now being rehabilitated because of their cooperation with the authorities. His explanation that wizarding Britain needed to unite, and do so as quickly as possible for the good of everyone, managed to silence most of his detractors. Not that those previously associated with the Dark Lord were terribly keen to attend, but it was a stipulation that they constantly be seen publicly and enthusiastically supporting the Ministry and its new inclusive policies – they really had no choice in the matter. And so it was that the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix and those who had fought on the side of the Light were slated to mingle with some of the very people they had been fighting against only months before.

Hermione had been in a bit of a quandary as to what she should wear to the event. She was tempted to stick with traditional robes but knew that her school mates – Harry for sure, and probably Ginny and the younger Weasleys as well as many of their friends – planned on mixing aspects of Muggle and wizarding fashion as a nod to what Shacklebolt was trying to do. Ultimately, she decided on the ivory gown she had worn to the swingers’ party, and did so for two principle reasons. First, she knew that Severus enjoyed seeing her in it – she had worn it _privately_ for him a couple of times before she went to Australia – and secondly, it was a declaration of sorts, to her friends and everyone else, that she wasn’t a schoolgirl any more. Although she hadn’t been terribly comfortable showing off so much of herself at Natalia’s party, things had changed since then, she reasoned. She had embarked on an adult relationship with Severus, and even if it was currently on hold, she fully intended to pick it back up at the end of the school year – anything that persuaded not just her friends but the wider public that she was now a full-fledged woman, capable of making her own decisions about such things, might prevent objections from being voiced later on.

That, at least, had been her rationale when she got dressed that evening, put on her make up, and wrestled her hair into an appropriate coiffure. Her confidence started to wane, however, when she met Minerva at the apparition point. Seeing very conservative robes peeking out from under her mentor’s tartan cloak almost made her run back to the castle to change, but the headmistress wouldn’t hear of it, saying blithely that she had excellent taste and was certain she was perfectly respectable. Of course her mentor could only see the bottom half of her dress, since the plunging neckline was covered by a short, dark brown, silk brocade cape. Before she was even aware of it, Minerva had taken her arm, side-along apparating them straight to the Ministry – it was now too late to alter her attire.

Hermione hung back as Minerva left her wrap with the coat-check witch, telling her former professor to go in without her, that she wanted to wait for Harry and Ron, which was true enough even if it wasn’t exactly the _whole_ truth. She lingered along one wall, nodding absently to those who passed her on their way into the chamber and dreading the moment when Harry and the Weasley clan would arrive.

She was completely lost in thought when Shacklebolt strode up and broke her reverie. “Miss Granger – why are you standing out _here_?”

“Um, waiting for Harry and Ron?” she hesitantly replied.

“Well, they are late – nothing unusual about that – but we really _do_ need to get started. Try and herd them in as soon as they arrive, would you?” he said with some exasperation before walking away. She could sympathize with him, having first-hand experience of the Wealsey sense of time, although she was all for putting off going in for as long as possible. But almost the instant the Minister disappeared back into the chamber the Weasleys, along with Harry, started apparating into the hall by twos and threes. Though they were recent parents, Bill and Fleur had come, and even Charlie had thought it important enough to travel all the way from Romania. Molly steered them to the coat-check counter – seeing Hermione hugging the wall, the matriarch shooed her along with the rest of them. As they were dispensing with their outer wear, Hermione half thought she might get away with hanging onto her cape, but the instant Harry relieved Ginny of her wrap, the young woman’s hands were at her throat and in an instant the garment was handed off to one of her brothers. And then, one by one, everyone fell silent as they took her in.

“Golly, Mione!” Ginny gushed in genuine admiration, her voice ringing clear in the reception hall. “You really went all out on this bash, didn’t you!” she exclaimed.

The air hung with her words until Molly broke in. “Alright, everyone, let’s finish up here and get inside,” she fussed, plucking at arms and trying to get them moving again.

Harry smiled warmly at her before kissing her cheek. “You look really nice, Mione – he had _better_ appreciate it,” he said quietly before offering his arm to Ginny. Ron, who had been staring wistfully at her, was just about to say something but was practically tackled from behind by his mother. Molly turned to look at George and nodded in Hermione’s direction, silently instructing him to escort her into the chamber.

George needed no further persuading – he was openly admiring of her and for once completely without a witty quip on his lips. All Hermione could do was smile sheepishly at him and ignore the hopeful glint in his mother’s eye. They brought up the rear and she was glad to be in the back of the boisterous group – they would serve to distract from her, and if she could make it to their table, she might be able to sit out the evening with her back to the room. But as fate would have it, the tables only seated ten people, and there weren’t enough places for all of their group. Everyone began talking at once, offering to scrunch up so they could sit together, but Molly turned George and Hermione away from the table, assuring all and sundry that the two of them would do just fine _on their own_.

As they looked around for places at other tables, Hermione was uncomfortably aware that she and George were now the center of attention. Conversations had quieted noticeably, and people were watching them as they scanned for two free seats. Hermione spotted a pair not too far away and tugged on the twin’s arm. When he didn’t respond, she looked up and followed his gaze – he was contemplating a table at the far side of the room, a table occupied, she was alarmed to see, by the Malfoys, Astoria Greengrass – who appeared to be Draco’s date – Neville Longbottom and his formidable grandmother Augusta, Minerva, and Severus.

“ _No_ , George,” she said emphatically, but his eyes had turned hard and he had a determined look on his face.

“Time for a bit of fun,” she heard him mumble darkly. Before she could remonstrate with him further, he grabbed her hand and pulled her along behind him, weaving between the tables.

As they approached, Lucius, Draco, and Severus got to their feet – Neville rose belatedly after a hard elbow to his ribs from Augusta. George ostentatiously held out Hermione’s chair, which she sunk down into as far as she could, but her breasts were still well above the table, the edge of which highlighted them further to her acute embarrassment. As George plopped down next to her, Shacklebolt began the introductions for the evening. Hermione’s back was to the podium but she didn’t dare turn to watch, given that she feared flashing everyone if she twisted around, so she sat immobile, focusing on the basket of dinner rolls in the center of the table. As the Minister for Magic carried on with his remarks, Neville, who was on the other side of her, leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“You look really nice, Hermione,” he said sweetly. “If the bugger doesn’t just sweep you off your . . . .” Neville grimaced as his grandmother poked him in the back and loudly shushed him. Hermione couldn’t help a nervous giggle, but her smile faded as she quickly glanced at her dinner companions. Minerva was steadfastly _not_ looking at her, but Augusta had no such compunction – she pursed her lips disapprovingly as her eyes briefly flitted between her face and décolletage. After giving Hermione a hard stare, she sniffed critically and turned her attention to the front of the room. Lucius was infinitely more appreciative of her attire, having already seen her in the gown once before – he smirked knowingly at her before he, too, turned his attention elsewhere. By contrast, Narcissa didn’t seem to notice her at all, and actually managed to appear genuinely interested in what Shacklebolt had to say, but Hermione knew that she was presenting a carefully cultivated front. Severus’s visage was stony – it was clear that, rather than being pleased to see her, he was seriously peeved at what she was wearing. Only Draco had the nerve to admire her openly, though not in a lascivious way she was surprised to note. Astoria was less certain of his attentions, however, and had a death grip on his arm while her eyes were also trained on the speaker.  

The room went deathly quiet when Shacklebolt got to the heart of his presentation, which was enumerating the many and various ways in which the Ministry was helping to reunite wizarding Britain through policies that had tolerance at their center. There was some uncomfortable shifting in chairs at a few of the tables around the room, although the senior Malfoys gave no indication whatsoever that they recognized that such policies were aimed at those like themselves who had supported the Dark Lord. Quite the opposite. Lucius may have been staring in the Minister’s direction, but he had a vacant look in his eyes indicating that he was miles away mentally, while Narcissa still seemed to be hanging on Shacklebolt’s every word. Only Draco appeared to be taking any of it in as he stared grimly down at the table cloth. Hermione glanced fleetingly at George, but what she saw in his face caused her to look at him again more closely. His eyes were firmly glued on Lucius, and if looks could kill . . . .

Shacklebolt finally finished his remarks and enjoined everyone to celebrate a new beginning for wizarding Britain, for which purposes he announced that the bar would be open for another ten minutes before dinner would begin.

“Well, _that_ was uplifting,” George drawled, schooling his expression and resuming his impish persona. But Hermione wasn’t fooled – something was up. “I think we should take up Kingsley’s suggestion and all have a drink to seal our new-found friendship – what do you say?” He picked up one of several drinks cards on the table and pretended to study it. “Lucius, old boy – you don’t mind if I call you _Lucius_ , do you?” he drawled rather dangerously to Hermione’s ears. “I think you’d do well with a Red-Headed Slut – and _definitely_ a Leg Spreader for your lovely wife.”

Momentarily forgetting her impeccable manners, Narcissa’s mouth fell open while Lucius’s attention fully returned to the present. “What? What did you say?” he asked a bit uncertainly but reflexively reaching for the head of his cane, which was leaning against the table. But George was already ploughing on.

“And how about an Angel’s Tit for Mrs. Longbottom?” He then leaned forward and spoke across Hermione. “Neville,” he said, feigning confidentiality, “I’d recommend a Three Legged Monkey – don’t think you’re ready for the four-limbed variety just yet!” he winked at the young man. “And Draco,” he continued, “a Tight Snatch for you and a Suck, Bang, and Blow for Astoria.” Draco started to laugh, much to his parent’s consternation, while Astoria flushed in anger.

“This is _outrageous_!” Augusta Longbottom snorted loudly.   

“And for our esteemed head of house . . . .”

“ _George!_ ” Hermione warned, pulling on his arm.

“. . . Sex with an Alligator.”

Minerva pursed her lips.    

“And now we come to _everyone’s_ learned potions master,” he said, eyeing him slyly and ignoring Hermione’s loud whisper to cease his recommendations – Severus arched a taunting brow. “I think it would just _have_ to be the Anus Burner!” Neville snickered, although the joke, or rather _jokes_ were clearly lost on his grandmother and Draco’s parents.  

“And for _you_ , Mr. Weasley,” Severus calmly retorted, “no doubt an Ass to curtail your tongue, and for Miss Granger,” he paused, taking his time to rake her over thoroughly with his eyes, “a good Blow Job.”  

The blush that immediately bloomed on Hermione’s face spread rapidly down to her chest, but few noticed as Augusta, now incandescent, struggled to her feet, almost too outraged to find the appropriate words to express it. “ _Professor Snape!_ ” she gasped, preparing to deliver an indignant tirade before making a haughty exit.

Minerva ran a tired hand across her brow.   

“Drinks, Mrs. Longbottom” he calmly interrupted, “they are _drinks_ , cocktails named to appeal to those” – he glowered at George – “with a _puerile_ sense of humor.”  

“Well I don’t find _any_ of it amusing,” she spluttered as Neville helped her back into her seat. “I don’t know _how_ you put up with it, Minerva, year after year at that school of yours.”

“You have _no_ idea what I have to put up with,” Minerva murmured under her breath, glaring daggers at both George and her colleague across the table.

“I hope I didn’t _offend_ anyone,” George drawled, assuming an air of shocked innocence. “They were only _suggestions_ – if you didn’t care for them, I can certainly make some other recommendations . . . .”

“ _Thank you_ , Mr. Weasley,” Minerva quickly cut in, “but that _won’t_ be necessary.”

“Since Mr. Weasley is so _keen_ to help us find something _suitable_ to drink, perhaps he would be so kind as to purchase a few bottles of _wine_ for the table,” Severus suggested helpfully, knowing full well that the Ministry was charging premium prices for the very average plonk being served that evening. The prospect of him laying out a couple dozen galleons immediately dampened George’s spirits.

“No need, Severus,” Lucius spoke up, just as George was reluctantly getting ready to head over to the bar. “We brought several bottles from our cellar,” he said blithely, “for _everyone_ to enjoy,” he added smoothly. He beckoned to a waiter and whispered something in his ear. The young man nodded, and went to the bar.  

George sneered in response to this announcement, although only Hermione caught it – he fingered his stemware in agitation for a moment before Severus silently _Accioed_ the glass and pointedly turned it upside down on the table with a resounding thud. The waiter returned with two decanters of wine, and poured it out. When everyone was about to take a sip, George saw another opportunity to offend.  

“What? No toast?” he asked gleefully, clearly ready to supply one.

“ _George_ ,” Hermione hissed warningly.

“Well then – here’s to the king!” he said solemnly, raising his water goblet.

Initially, there was only silence in response, but Augusta, looking quite perplexed, took the bait. “ _What_ king?”

“To fuc . . . .”

George was interrupted by a dinner roll that flew into his mouth.

“Finish that _at your peril_ , Mr. Weasley,” Severus threatened lowly as the young man chewed on the bite he had been forced to take. Draco started to laugh again, even in the face of sharply disapproving looks from his parents. Minerva stared at him with a face like thunder and even Hermione wanted to hex him.

“What? I don’t understand – what’s going on?” Augusta imperiously demanded, confused but also certain that she was the butt of yet another joke.

“To a united wizarding Britain,” Neville quickly offered diplomatically, hoisting his glass aloft.

“Well said, Mr. Longbottom,” Minerva swiftly commented, still staring disapprovingly at the miscreant sitting opposite her. Everyone lifted their glass, everyone save George, who sat back in his seat, threw an arm casually across the back of Hermione’s chair, and crossly watched everyone enjoying their wine. Hermione chanced another look at her escort and was startled by the prankster’s hard and bitter expression as he contemplated the head of the Malfoy family.

Almost immediately, dinner arrived and the topic turned to the rebuilding of Hogwarts, although the conversation was largely carried on by the older adults at the table. Draco and Astoria kept to themselves, and Hermione and Neville talked about how their respective apprenticeships were going. George ate with the usual Weasley abandon only more so – consequently, he was finished well before the rest of them and he abruptly excused himself to Hermione before getting up and stalking off to the bar.

“That young man needs taking in hand,” Augusta stated to no one in particular as soon as he was out of earshot.

Hermione felt honor bound to defend him. “He’s just grieving, Mrs. Longbottom, and doing so in the only way he knows how,” she said gently, trying not to look in the Malfoys’ direction.

“What utter _rot_ ,” she pronounced.

“I’ll just go and check on him,” Hermione said, smiling wanly at Severus who, based on his glare, was clearly _not_ interested in her weak attempt at mollifying him. Still, he and the Malfoy men got to their feet once more, and Neville followed their lead, after again being sharply elbowed.

Augusta started in on her the moment she turned her back. “And someone should do something about _her_ as well! That dress – I mean _really_!” she railed. “What on _earth_ was she thinking?”

Hermione skirted wall and kept her eyes down, pretending not to see the hopeful glances from people who wanted to greet one of the members of the Golden Trio.

“Alright, George?” she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder as he waited for his drink. “Thought you were starting to lose it a bit back there.”

“If I have to sit at a table while Lucius _fucking_ Malfoy and his _hoity-toity_ family sip putrid wine from their cellar as though the deaths of my brother – and everyone else – is nothing but water – or rather _blood_ – under the bridge, then I’ll be as bloody rude and offensive as I want to be,” he spat.

She took a deep breath. “Fair enough,” she murmured. The bartender set a whiskey in front of George, who promptly threw it back. “Another, my good man – Mione?” 

“The same, please, with soda,” she quietly replied.

“Sorry,” George offered contritely after a moment, squeezing her arm in apology. “I just had to do, say . . . _something_ , or else my head would have exploded.”

She threaded her arm through his and leaned against his shoulder. “I know,” she replied sympathetically.  

He watched them discreetly from his place at the table. Of course he had seen her the instant she entered the room – how could he _not_? The Weasleys knew how to make an entrance, that was for damn sure, even if it wasn’t on purpose. She had been on the arm of that ginger-headed mischief-maker and wearing that _bloody_ dress. That was _his_ dress – he _paid_ for it, for fuck’s sake – and she had no business _whatsoever_ wearing it out in public, and certainly not when she was on the arm of that anarchist agitator. He knew there was going to be trouble the instant the red-headed-wonder spied their distant table – he could see it writ plainly across his Gryffindor face – and he hadn’t been wrong. It was bad enough that Augusta’s eyebrows had almost shot completely over her head when Hermione sat down, her breasts practically framed from below by the edge of the table, but even Minerva couldn’t suppress an incredulous moue when her clearly adult protégé took her seat. They probably would have quickly gotten beyond it had George not made such an ass of himself and Hermione had been able to participate in their conversation. He didn’t actually mind the young man’s drinks prank – the table certainly needed a bit of livening up – but the boy just never knew when to stop. Of course he was perfectly aware that it was all fueled by his hatred of the Malfoys, but especially Lucius, who represented the evil that had felled his brother Fred. No one actually knew whose wand had actually done the dark deed, but it really didn’t matter – Lucius was as good a stand-in as anyone else, and certainly George wasn’t the only one whose grief-inspired hostility was directed towards the man. Although the Wizengamot had officially confirmed that the Malfoys had secretly broken with Voldemort towards the end, it made very little difference to people who had lost loved ones.

He tracked George and Hermione as they wandered back over to the Weasley tribe. She nodded her head and smiled now and again, but he could tell that she wasn’t really listening to any of them, rather her eyes followed Shacklebolt as he slowly approached his table – people wanted to greet him, shake his hand and ask for some favor, but he expertly put them off. He and Lucius rose as the Minister neared and the three of them stepped away from the table to have a private word.

Shacklebolt didn’t waste time on empty pleasantries. “There have been two more attacks, one of them just this afternoon,” he began unceremoniously. While their expressions never changed, the two men stiffened slightly and reflexively gave the room a quick scan. “And who was it this time?” Severus asked as he looked to see if anything – or anyone – was out of place.

“Well, today it was Andromeda Tonks.” The news that his sister-in-law had been attacked clearly shocked and surprised Lucius. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Shacklebolt interrupted him. “We didn’t call you in because you needed to be _here_ tonight,” he said pointedly, which made Lucius flinch in discomfort, “but also because Dromeda wouldn’t hear of it. But you need to tell Narcissa, and the two of you should try and get her sister to see sense and accept auror protection – at the very least, have her stay with you.”

Lucius nodded stiffly. “Was Teddy with her?” he inquired.

“No, thankfully, but next time she might not be so lucky.”

“So you think she was specifically targeted?” Severus asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Shacklebolt sighed in frustration, “because we also think that Avery was attacked last week.”

Now that _was_ news, and both men pricked up their ears. “He was never found after the battle and we’ve operated under the assumption that he was still alive – at least until this body showed up. We think it’s him. He was wearing a ring with the family crest, and the body at least looked to be the right age, but we’re not assuming anything. We’ve contacted Madam Pomfrey to get any medical records she might have from when he was at school, but if you two know of any particularly distinguishing physical features . . . .” the Minister trailed off.

“He had a spectacularly crooked nose, broken when he and Mulciber briefly fell out over a Ravenclaw girl – he also had a scar on his forehead, just above his right eye, I seem to recall,” Lucius supplied.

“Any distinguishing features _apart_ from his face?” Shacklebolt grimly asked. Lucius blanched at the implication that the body had been mutilated and merely shook his head. “Either of you have any ideas about who might be doing this?”

“While people who were on both sides of the war are being targeted, I think it’s very likely to be a disgruntled follower of the Dark Lord,” Severus replied speculatively.

“I understand why supporters of the Order of Phoenix might be within their sights, but why kill their own comrades?” the Minister asked.

Severus and Lucius exchanged a knowing look.

“Since Voldemort didn’t survive, none of us should – it’s as simple as that,” Lucius responded coolly.

“Then I suggest, gentlemen, that you look to you and yours with all due care, since it seems we’re _all_ potential targets. I’ll spread the word – _discreetly_ – among those who should be cautioned,” Shacklebolt continued, “but in the meantime, I may have need to call on _both_ of you for your expertise, but especially you, Severus.”

The potion master nodded curtly, grim resignation plastered across his face.  

“ _Thanks_ , Severus – I hated to ask, but this is starting to become serious.” Shacklebolt squeezed his forearm briefly and acknowledged Lucius before moving on to the next table to exchange perfunctory greetings.

Lucius gave his friend a quick, knowing glance before rejoining his wife and son at the table. Severus looked across the room to where Hermione continued to mingle with the Weasleys. He had thought of leaving once the dinning part of the evening was over, but after his conversation with Shacklebolt, he wanted to stay and see her – and Minerva, for that matter – safely home. He was unapologetically old fashioned about those kinds of things. He would need to have a word with them about taking appropriate precautions, but not this evening. Tonight Minerva could catch up with Augusta, and Hermione could dance the night away, safe in the middle of her friends, who he knew – regardless of what he otherwise thought of them – would die protecting her if the occasion ever arose. Since he wasn’t going anywhere soon, he stepped out onto the terrace for a bit of fresh air.

Hermione had seen Severus and Lucius rise to join Shackelbolt in what looked like a rather serious and private conversation – she had half-decided to corner her professor, both to find out what was going on as well as to explain why she was dressed the way she was, but the tables were being moved in order to free up some space for dancing. Her attention was pulled away from the scene playing out across the room by first Harry and Ron, and then George, so when she finally turned back around the Minister had moved on, Lucius had returned to his seat, and Severus had completely disappeared. She frowned – she had been looking forward to at least once dance with him, even as improbable as that scenario was. The music began shortly afterwards, and she was dragged on to the floor by the mass of Weasleys, whose boisterousness over meals was surpassed only by their enthusiasm for cutting a rug. After a while, she pleaded exhaustion and headed for one of the doors that opened on to the Ministry gardens.

The bracing air was initially quite refreshing, but it took only a few moments for the January temperatures to overwhelm her. She didn’t realize that George had followed her out until she felt his coat slipping around her shoulders. She smiled up at him and he joined her at the balustrade.

“Not much to look at,” he commented as he considered the bare trees and dead leaves covering the flower beds.

“No, but in a few months it will come to life again, and then it will thrive.” She looked at his profile out of the corner of her eye. “Spring _will_ follow the winter,” she added meaningfully.

He glanced down at her and smiled sadly. “I know you’re trying to tell me – in your distinctively _bookish_ way – that I’ll get beyond this, but right now, in the depths of winter, spring seems . . . seems a long way off. And even if the flowers _do_ ever bloom again . . . .”  He paused to look out into the night, trying to choke back the emotion. “There will _always_ be a place in my heart that is cold and wintry, a part of me that will never see the spring again,” he finished in barely a whisper.

“I know, George,” she said quietly, resting her hand on top of his. As they stood there silently, each contemplating the war that was still so fresh in their memories, loud voices from within began the count-down to the New Year. Just as the whooping and hollering started, fireworks erupted in the near distance, bright circles that sparkled briefly before dissipating over the city of London.

George turned her hand over and squeezed it. “Happy New Year, Hermione,” he said, awkwardly bending down to kiss her lightly. She was about to wish him the same when he suddenly and quite ardently embraced her – she was so taken off guard that she could do nothing but stand there with her hands against his chest and wait for it to end. But he quickly deepened the kiss and tightened his grip. She detected more than a little desperation in his actions, as if he needed to cling to something to feel alive. She pushed him away as gently as she could – his eyes were glistening and he turned away from her to dry them.

“Sorry, Mione,” he sniffled, “got a little carried away – must be that _dress_ ,” he tried to quip, “made me forget for a moment that you’re my second little sister.”

She ran her hand down his arm. “It’s alright, George, I do understand. But you can’t . . . you can’t _force_ the spring – it has to come upon you _naturally_ , and in its own good time. Although,” she added, an idea coming to her, “I happen to know an _excellent_ gardener who might be able to help you _cultivate_ any tender shoots you might have.” He looked down at her questioningly, a sad smile on his lips. “Angelina Johnson is here tonight,” she said quietly. “You probably didn’t see her at the back of the room.”

“Fred’s girlfriend,” he stated baldly and looked away once more as his emotions crowded in.

“She’s hurting, too,” Hermione softly murmured.

The door behind them opened abruptly. “There you are!” Ron slurred. “You’re missing the party!” he blurted out, swaying slightly.

“Come on, George – we’re missing the party,” she repeated encouragingly. She took his hand and dragged him back into the chamber.

As the door clicked shut behind them, he stepped out of the shadows at the end of the terrace and made his way over to the door, looking through one of the glass panels at the people celebrating inside. He had come outside to clear his head, to think and strategize over the recent attacks, and instead had been compelled to watch Hermione getting kissed – _again_ – by yet another of her pain-in-the-arse friends. Indeed, it was starting to seem like he was _doomed_ to witness every wounded young man take a bit of comfort in her arms.

He put his wand away - he had unthinkingly drawn it when his former student kissed her - and watched through the wavy glass as Hermione guided George to the back of the room. Angelina Johnson stood and shyly greet the man who might have ended up being her brother-in-law if not for the war. The two of them suddenly hugged each other, and Hermione slipped back to her friends, who were awkwardly flinging themselves around the dance floor like the heathens they were. Next year, _he_ would be Hermione’s escort, and then he would show them what _real_ dancing looked like. Or so his aching heart ardently hoped.


	10. Natalia Venena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa Malfoy is attacked and needs a potion that can only be brewed by a licensed potioneer. When Severus can't be found, Hermione agrees to do it on the sly, but her professor is missing a key ingredient. Lucius manages to find a wizard pharmacist who is willing to sell it illegally, but they have to meet him at a notorious wizarding swinger's party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it! Let me know! Next chapter title is Lucius!

**Natalia Venena**

Term resumed early, only a week after New Year’s since Minerva was trying to make up for the fact that the school year had started late owing to construction projects. Severus had escorted her and Minerva home after the ball, cautioning them that someone – probably a former follower of the Dark Lord – was attacking people and that they needed to be mindful of their surroundings whenever they left the castle or were out an about on school grounds. Once Minerva had gone off to her quarters he took his apprentice further to task about wearing that _blasted_ gown, though it wasn’t as ferocious a dressing down as he had initially intended it to be given that he was genuinely concerned about her safety. Well, that _and_ the fact that she was so obviously dismayed at George’s kiss and had readily conceded that perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to wear it to the celebrations after all. She cheekily promised not to put it on again unless it was for him and him alone – it was a promise he hoped she would want to keep.

Hermione didn’t give Severus’s warnings too much thought until two days later when word came that Mulciber had been found dead in a Knockturn Alley whorehouse, his face disfigured just like Avery’s had been. Shacklebolt almost immediately drafted Severus into service and Hermione had taken on his teaching responsibilities. It cut into the time she could spend on her master’s project, but she was in between lab experiments anyway, and she still had her evenings free to read and plot out the next steps in her research. She was also assured that Severus’s absence would be of relatively short duration – he was going to be using his many and nefarious contacts merely to gather information – and if he wasn’t back after two weeks, then other arrangements would be made, up to and including hauling Horace Slughorn temporarily out of retirement. No one was particularly enthusiastic about that possibility, so Severus had promised Minerva he would make the most of his time with the Ministry so he could return in good order.  

So far, the students hadn’t given her any problems, and since it was the weekend, Minerva had ensured that she didn’t have any duties. She had spent the morning writing up some of her research, and planned to continue doing that after lunch, but her spirits fell when Filch appeared at the door and lumbered towards her to have a word after spying her at the faculty table.

“Headmistress wants ta see ya,” he mumbled.

She acknowledged the message and resumed eating, but when the caretaker didn’t go away, further hastening to add “sooner rather than later,” she reluctantly put down her fork, raised her napkin to her mouth, and excused herself to her colleagues. Filch’s look of sadistic pleasure was the worst part of missing her lunch – or so she initially thought.

The headmistress’s office door was slightly ajar when she got to the top of the spiral staircase, and voices seeped out, one of them a man’s – he sounded . . . _familiar_. A frown settled on her features when she recognized who it was. She may have had to sit at the same table with him at the New Year’s ball, but she had managed to avoid actually speaking to him. Now, it seemed, there was no escape, and she wrapped on the door with considerable _attitude_.

“Come in Miss Granger,” Minerva called tersely, and as she entered Lucius stood and slowly turned in her direction – he inclined his head stiffly. He maintained an expressionless exterior, but the look on the headmistress’s face could have curdled milk and she instinctively approached warily. Minerva got straight to the point.  

“Mr. Malfoy is in rather desperate need to see Professor Snape. I tried my _Patronus_ but it went straight to the Ministry and no one there seems to know where he is – I thought he might have told you where he was going,” she informed her.

“No, headmistress, he didn’t say anything to me before he left,” she replied honestly enough.  

“Right, then,” Minerva responded, indicating that they should all be seated. “If I may?” she asked Lucius, who nodded slightly, never changing his expression. “Narcissa Malfoy was attacked two days ago and lies desperately ill in St. Mungo’s.” Hermione glanced at Lucius, who was absently fiddling with the head of his sliver tipped cane as if he was completely disinterested in the conversation.   

“What happened?” Hermione asked as dispassionately as she could.

Minerva looked to Lucius, who continued to play with his walking stick.

“She was hit with some kind of spell outside Madam Malkins,” the headmistress informed her when it became clear that Lucius would not take the lead in their conversation. “The healers have diagnosed dark magic at work, and even know the potion that can dispel it . . . .” she trailed off.

Hermione was suddenly filled with a sense of dread. “Then why don’t they give it to her?” she queried with trepidation.

Lucius remained inert, so Minerva moved on.

“She needs the _Sun’s Beam_ , the ingredients for which are, I understand, strictly controlled by the ministry, so it can only be brewed by a licensed potioneer. Severus usually does that kind of work for them, but he’s not available, and the healers haven’t been able to find anyone else who will . . . who _can_ do it,” she quickly corrected herself.

Minerva looked at her expectantly as the information sank in. She had of course _read_ about the _Sun’s Beam_ and its counterpart, the _Moon’s Mist_ – one a powerful stimulant used to counteract dangerously deep and magically induced comas, the other an equally powerful sedative to bring them on – but the headmistress was asking a lot more than just whether she had the expertise to brew it. The real question was whether she would be willing to make it on the sly. It was a risk – not a huge one, admittedly – but if word got out that she had produced a potion without the required permission or oversight, she could be jeopardizing her accreditation as a potion master.

She took a deep breath, bowed her head, and ran a hand across her brow in disbelief at what was being asked of her. “And if she doesn’t get this treatment?” she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to make it clear that she was more than a little perturbed at the position she was being placed in.

Lucius finally turned to address her. “She will _die_ , Miss Granger.” Hermione looked up – there was a wry smile on his lips, as if to acknowledge that she had the ultimate advantage over him, that his wife’s life was now in her hands. She drew no satisfaction from that, however.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Minerva began, rising from her chair. Lucius, too, immediately stood, his good manners on autopilot. “Will you please excuse us so we may discuss the . . . the _situation_?” Without a word, Lucius bowed slightly and slipped past Hermione, the door closing softly behind him. Minerva sat down, folding her hands on the desk in front of her as she scrutinized her former student.

“Will you do it?” she quietly asked.

Hermione noted with grim satisfaction that her mentor didn’t ask if she _could_ but rather if she _would_ do it. She certainly had every reason not to. She was not by nature a vengeful person, but it was the case that, if she hadn’t _persuaded_ him otherwise, Lucius had been fully prepared to take his pound of flesh for the last ingredient in the nerve regeneration potion that had saved Severus’s life back in the summer. It was also the case that he had stood by while his wife’s demented sister had carved that obscenity on her arm. On the other hand, she knew that the Ministry – well, Shacklebolt at least, _and_ Severus for that matter – believed that he and his family were worthy of being rehabilitated.

“You want me to do it,” Hermione stated rather than asked as neutrally as she could.

Minerva took in a breath and slowly let it out. “I grant you that for most of the last eighteen or so years, their lives have been based on fallacies of _every_ variety, but they _did_ at least manage to see the error of their ways before Voldemort fell – they actually tried to help Severus in the last months. Lucius was spared Azkaban because of this and because he provided valuable information on the Dark Lord’s followers after the last battle. Further, it’s my understanding that he is helping Severus locate the group of renegades who are attacking all these people. Indeed, that’s likely one of the principle reasons why Narcissa was ambushed. You should know that she, too, is trying to redeem herself by spearheading several charities to help Muggleborns who lost their families or were injured in the war,” Minerva added before pausing to form her thoughts. “Severus has told me – and I assume you as well – that Draco was _forced_ to repair the Vanishing Cabinet, that Voldemort _ordered_ him to murder Professor Dumbledore on pain of death, his and his parents’. He’s publicly and repeatedly renounced everything the Dark Lord stood for, and helps his mother in her charitable work.”

Hermione folded her arms across her chest, still scowling critically.  

“I know all of this may seem opportunistic, and some it undoubtedly _is_ ,” Minerva acknowledged, mirroring her former student’s thoughts, “but they _are_ making the effort and I think that with time and continued service to the community they will genuinely come to see the error of their ways. Severus believes that as well.” She sighed heavily. “And if none of that seems sufficiently compelling, then I ask you to think about what we fought for in this war and what it will now take to rebuild our society. At New Year’s, Kingsley made it sound as if his policies had been universally well-received, but I _assure_ you the peace is more fragile than that. We need to win these people’s hearts and minds as _well_ as their bank accounts,” she said.

In all good conscience, Hermione knew that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if it was within her means to save another human life and yet did nothing. “You had me before you even started, Minerva,” she responded with resignation, “as I’m sure you well know.”

The headmistress relaxed fractionally. “Are you familiar with the potion?”

“I’ve seen it in my reading, of course, but obviously I haven’t ever brewed it – I don’t recall it being a particularly difficult potion, though. Obviously I’ll need to floo Mr. Duggins, but I think I can probably manage it, provided Severus has all of the necessary ingredients. When does it need to be done?” Minerva arched a brow. “Right – I’ll get started on it immediately,” she announced, rising from the chair.

“I know I won’t be any use in the lab,” Minerva said, getting to her feet and escorting her former student to the door, “but if there is anything else I _can_ do, please let me know. And Hermione?” The young woman paused as the headmistress stayed her hand on the door knob. “ _Thank you_. Keep me posted.” Hermione nodded and left.

When she stepped off the spinning staircase Lucius was at the far end of the long corridor, standing perfectly still and staring out a window – he appeared completely disengaged with his surroundings. Only when she was almost upon him did he turn, taken unaware and startled at the sound of her steps. She caught a fleeting look of . . . she wasn’t certain, but it looked like anxiety, before his expression immediately transitioned into one of seeming disinterest. He wasn’t quite as practiced at it as Severus, but she recognized it for what it was – he was genuinely worried, and that more than anything else reassured her that she had made the right decision.

She sighed audibly, but he didn’t flinch. “Well let’s get this over with, shall we?” she huffed. He trailed behind her as they headed for Severus’s quarters. Once there, she left him to his own devices, which in practical terms meant helping himself to a generous measure of his friend’s best whiskey and settling down in front of the fire in his absent host’s best reading chair.

She pulled down several of Severus’s books before finding the potion in question and heading into the lab. A quick read-through of the directions and check of supplies revealed that he had all necessary ingredients save one, of course, and based on Severus’s copy of _Potioneer’s Compendium_ , it was not only a key component but one that was especially tightly controlled by the ministry, requiring a great deal of paperwork to obtain. The potion required the milk from one of the solstice and equinox plants. There were four altogether – March’s Lady, Midsummer’s Mistress, September’s Lord, and Winter’s Master. Each plant bloomed for just a few hours on their respective solstice or equinox and the liquid from their thick stems could only be collected after it had blossomed. The fluid from each was also viable for only four months, by which time the next plant would have bloomed and supplies could be renewed. What she needed, then, was milk from the Winter’s Master, which would have been collected a few weeks before. There wasn’t time to go through proper channels, not that she could have done it on her own anyway given her apprentice status. Returning to the study, she took a pinch of powder and threw it into the hearth, calling for Duggins. When he replied, she knelt down to speak into the flames. Lucius sat dispassionately as Hermione explained the situation, but when she revealed that Severus didn’t have milk from the Winter’s Master, he leaned forward with more interest.

“I don’t suppose you have any stocks of it?” she had to ask, even though she knew he wouldn’t, given his situation.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t – impossible for me to collect, you see,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Not that a potioneer would likely keep the milk on their shelves, it’s so rarely needed – most masters would simply resort to a wizarding apothecary. Perhaps Mr. Malfoy could obtain it for you?” he asked with a knowing tone in his voice.

“I should be able to manage it,” he nonchalantly affirmed.

“Time is of the essence,” Duggins informed them through the flickering flames. “It’s the last ingredient, and it’s fragile, so the first dose of the potion has to be administered the instant it’s been finished. What this means in practical terms is that it can’t be added until you are actually at St. Mungo’s.”

“If you will excuse me,” Lucius said, swallowing back the rest of the whiskey and levering himself out of the chair. “I have some arrangements to make,” he informed her, putting the tumbler on the mantle. “I’ll be back later this afternoon,” he said, leaving by way of the door to Severus’s quarters.

With Lucius gone, Duggins went over the procedures for brewing the potion, with Hermione taking careful notes. Although the directions said to make it all in one go and then administer it to the patient in two, twenty minute intervals, he advised her to divide the potion equally into separate vials when she was done and add milk from the Winter’s Master to each container only just before it was to be given to Mrs. Malfoy – this would ensure that the potion was as potent as possible since the ingredient tended to degrade quickly after being added to other things. She flooed him an hour later after finishing and he resumed his instructions.  

“It’s important that you use a testing strip on whatever Mr. Malfoy is able to obtain,” he said in reference to the missing ingredient. “Unscrupulous pharmacists sometimes try to pass off stock from the previous quarter as being from the most recent solstice or equinox – this would make the potion completely useless since the efficacy of the milk is directly tied to the time of year. If the liquid is truly from the Winter’s Master, it will be pearlescent in color but turn the strip as black as night. Anything different and you’ll have to find another source.”

“Right,” she responded, hoping that Lucius knew someone he could trust.

“When you get to St. Mungo’s,” Duggin’s went on, “you need to put three drops into the first vial, _gently_ shake it back and forth, and then give it _immediately_ to Mrs. Malfoy. Check her vital signs – you should see an uptick in brain activity, but probably nothing else after this first dose. Twenty minutes later you need to put _five_ drops into the second vial before mixing and administering it. After that, the brain activity should increase slightly but her breathing will become more robust and she will respond to physical stimuli. She probably won’t regain full consciousness, however, until twenty-four hours or so after that.”

“Should I stay and monitor her progress through the night?”

“No, that shouldn’t be necessary, not if the other signs are improving. Hanging around will probably only annoy the mediwitch on duty,” he said with a touch of humor.

They were just finishing the consult when Lucius returned, informing them that he had arranged to meet someone that evening who would supply milk from the Winter’s Master. Duggins made her promise to contact him at the end of their venture to let him know how things went. He then wished them the best of luck and signed off.  

Hermione stood and, finding herself a bit stiff, lifted her arms, stretching first one way, then the other, but she froze at Lucius’s appraising look. “Where and when are we meeting your contact?” she asked, lowering her hands and shaking her shoulders to loosen the sweater that now felt far too tight across her chest.

“At a party at 11:00 tonight,” he replied, with just a hint of amusement.

“What . . . _party_ ,” she asked, immediately suspicious.

“One hosted by someone I’m sure you are anxious to reconnect with,” he said, clearly enjoying her growing discomfort.

“Not . . . not one of Natalia’s little _soirees_?” she asked indignantly. He smiled lewdly in response. “I’m _not_ going to another of her swingers parties!” she announced defiantly, hands on hips as she glared at him.

“Let me assure you, Miss Granger,” he replied smoothly, “this was _not_ my idea – I prefer St. Mungo’s for obvious reasons, but my contact refused. He wanted a neutral place, somewhere he felt . . . _comfortable_ – I was in no position to make demands.”

She fumed. “Fine,” she finally bit out with ill grace.

“And what, pray tell, will you be wearing?”

“You know perfectly well what I’ll be wearing,” she testily informed him.

“Tsk, tsk,” he clucked. “You can’t _possibly_ show up in the _same_ gown as before, Miss Granger – it simply _isn’t_ done,” he drawled, “especially since you wore it again at New Year’s. There will be people at Natalia’s gathering who were at the Ministry’s celebrations, and anyone who saw you there” – he paused to look up and down her frame, clearly recalling her in the dress – “would recognize your _figure_ in an instant. I assume you want to remain anonymous, like the _last_ time?” he drawled.

“I’ll transfigure it,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I don’t want you draining your magic unnecessarily when you might have need of it later on for more _important_ purposes. I have a _much_ better solution,” he purred. She didn’t much like the sound of that. “My wife has several closets full of clothes, a far better selection than even Madam Malkin.” He took a pinch of floo powder into his hand. “Shall we?”

“And why should I trust _you_ , of _all_ people?” she demanded.

All levity fled and his blue eyes bore into hers. “Because, Miss Granger,” he steadied himself, “I’m relying on you to save my _wife_ – the mother of my _son_.” The intensity of his gaze caused her to nod faintly in response. He tossed the powder into the hearth and called out Malfoy Manor. “After you, Miss Granger,” he said, gesturing to the flames. Swallowing hard, and fully ready to pull her wand if necessary, she took one last look at him and stepped through the floo into the front hall of the manor – he followed close behind.

He casually tossed his cloak to a waiting house elf, who was nearly bowled over by it, and indicated that she was to follow him. She mouthed sorry to the elf before pursuing her host. Mercifully, they didn’t pass through any of the rooms she had been in previously, although the smell of ancient walls and floors, as well as the general gloominess of the older part of the place still made her queasy. Finally, he reached a door deep within the house, throwing it open dramatically – she was completely taken aback. Narcissa’s bedroom was spacious and filled with light from a bank of tall windows. The room itself was decorated with floral wall paper and very tasteful pieces several centuries old, she guessed.

Lucius proceeded to his wife’s closet and disappeared into its vast interior. He came back with what she assumed was a black dress – she couldn’t tell for sure based on the bits of shapeless material that dangled from the padded hanger. Whatever it was supposed to be, there wasn’t much of it. He smirked as he held it out for her – she rolled her eyes.

“What? You couldn’t afford the _rest_ of the dress?” she sneered, pushing past him into the closet to check out the options for herself. Narcissa certainly had an extensive and, based on the labels, expensive wardrobe, and as Hermione’s eyes wandered over the clothes, she heard Lucius return the dress he had shown her to its place in the closet. She glanced in his direction as he leaned against the doorway – she could feel his eyes on her as she ran her hand lightly over the tops of the hangers. She eventually paused at a burgundy brocade gown – pulling it out, she held it up in front of herself and looked down.

“Try it on,” Lucius murmured suggestively. She suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of stripping off and slipping into one of his wife’s dresses in a bedroom closet with only one exit. Her hand reflexively felt for the wand in her shirt sleeve.

He laughed, as if he could read her thoughts. “I’ll just step outside until you’re done,” he said, heading back into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

She hurriedly drew off her clothes, stepped into the gown and pulled it up. The structured but otherwise unadorned bodice had three-quarter sleeves and was designed to sit just off the shoulder. A short slit in the center splayed the fabric across her breasts, resulting in an impressive cleavage. There was just enough skirt to drape straight off her hips and drag behind as she walked – she couldn’t tell for sure because she couldn’t reach the hooks in the back. Grabbing her wand, she stepped out of the closet. Lucius, who once more was looking out a window, surveying his domain, turned to study her intently from across the room as she posed in front of the standing mirror. As he sauntered towards her from behind, reaching for the back of her dress, she tensed slightly, again ready to wield her wand if necessary.

“ _Merlin’s balls_ , girl, I’m not going to hurt you!” he said indignantly, as he began to fasten the hooks. It was a snug but flattering fit – with some heels, it would indeed drag fashionably behind without tripping her in front. He turned her around and slowly took her in, studying her from every angle as if he were a _couture_ designer. She blushed under his scrutiny.

“It suits you,” he finally said, genuinely appreciative, spinning her to face the mirror once more.   

“It’s . . . it’s a bit . . . _revealing_ ,” she commented, staring at her breasts and trying to tug up the neckline.

“Stop that,” he commanded, reaching round and slapping her hands to stop her from trying to pull the dress further up her chest – her blush deepened. “It’s no lower than your other gown,” he dryly observed. “Why are you so afraid of standing out, Miss Granger? You are a beautiful woman, Muggleborn or no,” he unhesitatingly stated. She huffed slightly, rejecting his assessment, but her eyes were wide and fixed on her reflection. “Perhaps not in the conventional way you are thinking of, it’s true,” he conceded more softly, “you could certainly do with a more flattering hairstyle,” he critiqued as he picked up a chunk of her hair before letting go of it pointedly, “but you would still turn heads even if you were dressed in rags.” He gripped her upper arms. “Always play to your strengths,” he intoned hypnotically, “there is advantage and _power_ to be had in looking your very best.” At that he abruptly released her – sobering, he turned away, going back to the window.

The color was good on her, she was objective enough to see at least that, and the style of the garment was certainly flattering to her shape, but beautiful? She glanced at him briefly as she went back to the closet to change. He looked even paler in the grey light of the waning afternoon, and . . . _melancholy_ , she realized unthinkingly. It made her pause, and she wondered if he pursued other women out of real desire or merely habit, wondered if it was all an attempt to dispel something that ran deeper in him. Severus was a fairly good judge of character and clearly saw something in his longtime friend that was worth saving – she filed the observation away for later reflection.  

Lucius offered to arrange for some tea when she stepped out of the closet, the dress carefully draped over her arm, but she insisted that she needed to get back to Hogwarts – however nice Narcissa’s boudoir, the whole place still gave her the shivers.

“I’ll walk you back to the entry,” he said casually, and she quietly trailed behind him. “Can you be ready at 10:00?” he asked, once they had returned to the front hall.

“I thought you said _11:00_ ,” she looked at him suspiciously.

“I want to get the lay of the land, so to speak, before we meet our contact,” he informed her coolly.

It seemed reasonable enough, even to her, given the kind of place they were going to. “Very well – the floo will be open.”

“And get soot all over my clothes?” he asked incredulously. “I think _not_ ,” he said scathingly. “I will collect you in the proper manner, Miss Granger, which is to say at the _door_ to Severus’s quarters.”

She rolled her eyes. “ _Whatever_ ,” she responded sarcastically before disapparating

Once she was back at the castle and had hung up the gown, she flooed to Minerva’s office, the soot be damned. She laid out their plan, and while the headmistress wasn’t enthusiastic, it seemed the only course of action. Once more Hermione went through the school’s box of Halloween masks, looking for something that would be suitable for that evening – there was a small, black velvet one that would do very nicely. She decided to wear her hair up again, and with the eye makeup and heels, she was satisfied at the transformation. Her only regret was that Severus wouldn’t get to see her.

She was ready and waiting when Lucius called at precisely at 10:00. He scrutinized her critically, pulling a few tendrils to dangle along her neck before he was satisfied, not that she had any illusions about him wanting to improve her appearance merely for her own sake – he had, and was _known_ to have, exacting standards and wouldn’t lower them for anyone but especially not for her. In that respect he was more _man_ than bigoted wizard. He also gave her a hefty bag of galleons to carry in her delicate yet expandable and weightless reticule. They said nothing as they walked to the apparition point where, much to her surprise, Minerva was waiting. The headmistress’s lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line at what Hermione was wearing, but she saved the accompanying forbidding scowl for Lucius alone.

“I want to remind you, _Mr. Malfoy_ ,” she said precisely and cuttingly, “that Miss Granger is doing both you _and_ your wife a tremendous favor and you had better treat her with the respect that her efforts deserve. If anything should happen to her, I will hold you _personally_ responsible. Do we understand each other?” she eyed him severely. Minerva was a formidable witch, but Hermione had never seen her mentor so menacing – even he had the good sense not to make light of the situation.

He put his hand to his chest and bowed slightly. “You have my word as a gentleman,” he promised.  

Minerva arched a doubtful brow before turning to her former protégé, trying hard to keep her eyes from drifting downward. “I have every confidence in you, my dear. And if he so much as puts a foot – or _hand_ – out of place, _hex_ him, like I know you can do,” she advised her sternly, glowering at him again before stepping away to allow them to apparate. Hermione saw him swallow hard before gallantly offering her his arm. With a turn and a twist, they were instantly at the end of the long drive to Natalia’s 18 th century pile.

Although she now knew what to expect, not only of Natalia but her lecherous coterie as well, she couldn’t help being nervous as they approached the entrance. Just as before, the handful of wizards hanging around outside smoking their cigars and cigarettes ogled her openly, smiling approvingly at Lucius, who smirked as he guided her inside. It was late enough in the evening for Natalia to have abandoned her position at the door as hostess, so they wandered into the ballroom. Lucius snagged some glasses of champagne from a tray that floated by. As they sipped the bubbly, he moved in close. 

“I need to take a turn about the room, see who is here, make sure there isn’t going to be any trouble,” he said quietly as he scanned the crowd over the top of his flute.

“Are you expecting any?” she asked, trying not to be alarmed.

“No, not necessarily. But I also have no doubt that whoever is responsible for these attacks targeted my wife because they couldn’t get to _me_ – I won’t be taken unawares,” he calmly informed her. In that moment, he reminded her strongly of Severus. He took her elbow and started to work his way slowly around the room. As with the previous party, the guests – both wizards and witches – were preening provocatively. She was on the receiving end of interested looks, just as she had been before, and was almost grateful that she had protection this time, even if it _was_ Lucius. He used her fictitious name – Venetia Kestrel – in his introductions, but she was relieved that he carried most of the conversations.

They were half way through the room when she heard a woman’s distinctive laugh. Turning, she saw Natalia Venena a dozen or so feet away, wearing a form-fitting dress in a deep, rich violet that matched her eyes – she was looking upwards at the man next to her while trying to pull him closer. Hermione couldn’t see his face, but he was tall and slender, with black hair to his shoulders. He appeared to be wearing a frock coat that came down to his knees and was paired with trousers that had exactly four buttons from the hem to his ankle. Rather than dress shoes, he was incongruously sporting black, rather worn dragon hide boots.

The room suddenly shifted and she swayed – she was certain that she had stopped breathing. Lucius noticed and reached out to steady her, absently turning to see what she was staring at. At that moment, the tall man in black leaned in to say something in Natalia’s ear while provocatively cupping her breast briefly before running his hand slowly and suggestively down her side, over her hip, and then behind to her arse, where he squeezed the fulsome flesh.

She vaguely heard Lucius swear under his breath as he tried to pull her away, but she was rooted to the spot, unable to speak what for the broken heart lodged firmly in her throat. And then Natalia looked past her wizard’s arm and focused on the pair of them. Her eyes widened in recognition.  

“Lucius!” she squealed excitedly, pulling away from her escort. “And I see you’ve brought _Venetia_ ,” she cooed more amorously. At that, the tall wizard stiffened and slowly turned his head. It took less than a millisecond for the dress, the cleavage, the fabric hugging her shapely hips, and Lucius’s hand at her waist to register. He didn’t need to employ _Legilimency_ to see the range of emotions coursing through her because similar reactions – along with homicidal rage – were also racing through him, only he was infinitely better at concealing them. He stared stonily at them.

Hermione was near to bursting, and started to inch away, but Lucius held her firm. “It’s way too late to run, my dear – you are just going to have to bluff your way through, like the last time,” he whispered before pasting a condescending smile on his face and offering his cheek to Natalia to peck. Their hostess moved on to Hermione with rather more relish and planted a fulsome, open mouthed kiss on her guest. She seemed quite prepared to continue snogging her, right there in the middle of the ballroom in front of everyone, but Severus finally took her arm and jerked her away. Disappointed but undeterred, Natalia stepped back and snuggled into Severus’s side – Hermione half expected her to raise her leg and hook it around his waist.

“You two are _old_ friends I know,” she began familiarly, referring to Lucius, “but Severus, this is Venetia.”

No one moved. Natalia leered openly at Hermione, who looked disconsolately at Severus, who looked murderously at Lucius, who smiled smugly in his usual and quite annoyingly self-satisfied way – only their hostess seemed oblivious to the tension between them.

“You’ll have to forgive him, Venetia,” she said after a moment, leaning forward conspiratorially, “he has a rather taciturn nature,” she explained as if he wasn’t actually within earshot. “But I know how to warm him up,” she added suggestively, running well-manicured fingers down the front of his coat – he gripped her wrist just before she reached his groin. “But that will be for _later_ , of course,” Natalia said seductively. “Why don’t we girls leave our wizards to chat,” she suggested intimately to Hermione, “they can join us _upstairs_ in a little while.”

Hermione tensed at the distasteful prospect, but Lucius firmly wrapped both his arms around her, pulling her to him tightly and pressing his face next to hers over her shoulder. “I’m not quite ready to _share_ , yet,” he replied lasciviously, dipping one hand to her lower abdomen while reaching up to press the other to her breast. Rather than trying to shake him off, Hermione looked Severus right in the eye and leaned back into Lucius arms, practically taunting him.   

Severus briefly thought he might be having a stroke. He wasn’t sure, never having had one before, but he if he _were_ going to suffer one, he believed it would be like this. His face was immobile, but the fury in his eyes was unmistakable and he glared murderously at them both. No one saw him flick his wrist, but the effect was still the same – the table holding the hor d’oeuvres at once collapsed, and Natalia quickly excused herself.

Severus didn’t waste time, but stepped in close. “I am going to fucking _kill_ you, Malfoy, you cock-sucking _whoreson_ , and it’s going to be slow and _excruciatingly_ painful,” he threatened ominously.

Hermione felt Lucius swallow before he stepped away from her. “Now Severus, let’s not be hasty or overreact, here,” he said with just a hint of nervousness.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing with her? And coming _here_ of all places?” Severus demanded lowly.

“None of your _bloody_ business!” Hermione piped up, having finally found her voice.  

“You, _madam_ , can stay the fuck _out_ of this,” he hissed, turning swiftly to address her.

“Then what, may I ask, are _you_ doing here?” she demanded furiously.

Severus fisted his hands and clenched his jaw, saying nothing as he quickly looked around to see who might be listening – several people had indeed turned in their direction, ready to be entertained by what appeared to be a lover’s spat involving two prominent and well-known men and one very attractive woman.

“Look, Severus, we . . . .” Lucius began, but Hermione cut him off.

“We owe you _nothing_ by way of explanation. That . . . that was our agreement,” she said, trying not to let her voice waver while summoning every ounce of Gryffindor courage that she could. “If you want to see that . . . that . . . _strumpet_ , then that’s your prerogative. And if I want to see Lucius, then . . . then I _will_ ,” she finished, lifting her chin haughtily and dragging Lucius off through the crowd without a backward glance. Once they reached the terrace, though, she found that all her bravery was gone.

“What the bloody hell was _that_ all about?” Lucius demanded sharply. “You are going to get me fucking killed!” he complained, yanking on her arm and turning her to face him. “Oh for _fuck’s sake_ ,” he said in irritation, seeing the tears slipping out from under her mask and running down her cheeks. He raised his hand to pat her awkwardly on the shoulder and unexpectedly found to his consternation that he an arm full of sniveling witch whose running mascara was dangerously close to his acromantula silk shirt. He pushed her slightly away and pressed a pristine linen handkerchief into her hand before checking his front. “Why didn’t you just let me tell him the truth?” he asked exasperatedly.  

“Because he was with . . . with _her_ ,” she mumbled as she loudly blew her nose.

The village church clock chimed out the hour – it was 11:00. “We don’t have time for this,” he said irritably. “Pull yourself _together_ ,” he ordered brusquely.  

She straightened, blew her nose one more time, and tried to return the handkerchief.

He grimaced in disgust. “Consider it a _gift_ ,” he said, pushing her hand away.

“How do I look?” she asked, wiping at her face.

“Hideous, and that’s in spite of the mask,” he replied honestly enough, before pointing his wand and cleaning up her face. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand unceremoniously when he had finished. They bounded down the terrace stairs and made their way across the lawn. There was a faint light emanating from the Neo-Classical folly down by the lake and as they approached, she could see a heavy-set man with rather wild hair sticking out in every direction. He turned as they stepped into the mock temple. He was about fifty and didn’t look the friendly sort. In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was . . . .

“Wingtree,” Lucius greeted him.

“Malfoy,” the man replied, and not at all warmly. “Who’s the tart?”

“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth,” Lucius threatened without missing a beat.

“I like to know who I’m doing business with, is all,” Wingtree replied surly.

“She’s the brewer,” Lucius informed him.

“Take off the mask,” he demanded.

“No,” Hermione forcefully replied. She had no idea if he’d recognize her – it had been dark when she had broken into his pharmacy for one of the ingredients in Severus’s nerve regeneration potion, and she didn’t think he got a good look at her, but given everything she had ever heard about Rufus Wingtree, she wasn’t going to push her luck.

“I said take it off!” he insisted.

“I’m at risk, here, and I’m keeping it on!” she fired back fiercely.

Wingtree tried to stare her down, but she didn’t flinch. “Fine,” he spat.

“Do you have it?” Lucius pressed.

The pharmacist reached into his coat, only to have Lucius draw his wand from his cane. “Careful,” he cautioned, and Wingtree slowly pulled out a small vial. Hermione dug around in her reticule and produced a thin testing strip. She held out her hand expectantly, but Wingtree drew back his arm.

“I’ll see the galleons first,” he said.

She looked at Lucius, who nodded slightly. Rummaging around again in her bag, she handed the galleons to Lucius and Wingtree offered her the vial. Holding it to Wingtree’s lantern, the pearlescent fluid shimmered. She uncorked it and dipped the strip – it turned black. She smiled slightly at Lucius. “It’s good,” she confirmed.

“I only sell the _best_ ,” Wingtree commented acerbically.

There was a swishing noise beyond the Ionic pillars holding up the porch and the two men raised their wands.

Severus emerged from the shadows, the palms of his hands held upwards so that everyone could see he was unarmed – at least for the moment.

“It’s you, Snape.” Wingtree sounded relieved, putting his wand back into his coat pocket. “I’m just finishing up some other business with your old friend, here, and his very nice piece of ass.” Hermione snorted indignantly.  

“I didn’t know you were meeting anyone here tonight, Lucius,” Severus observed smoothly.

“You weren’t _supposed_ to know,” Hermione cut in sharply. He scowled at her in return.

“The galleons – if you don’t mind,” Wingtree sneered, reaching for the money. The instant it was in his hands, a spell with a blue trail passed between them, hitting the back wall.  

In an instant, Severus’s wand was in his hand, and he promptly aimed it at the lantern, immediately extinguishing it, but there was still enough of a moon to make them targets. He grabbed Hermione’s arm and shoved her forcefully in Lucius’s direction. “Get her the fuck out of here!” he bellowed. They were far enough away from the house’s wards to apparate and Lucius didn’t question the order – before Hermione could take her next breath, they were standing outside St. Mungo’s.


	11. Lucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione completes the potion and gives it to Narcissa, and while they wait for it to take effect, she and Lucius have a conversation about their current circumstances. Other exchanges with the third person of the trio follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week's chapter title is Master Duggins. Until then, feel free to keep in touch!

**Lucius**

Healer Timber Wells was rather taken aback when Lucius and Hermione strode into St. Mungo’s. It was after midnight and it was clear to Healer Wells that the two of them had come from a fancy do of some kind, even as the man’s wife lay deathly ill in a bed on the first floor. With her nose held high in disapproval, she led them to Narcissa Malfoy’s room. When Lucius announced that they had brought the potion his wife needed, Wells insisted that she would need to be present for its administration and would remain in the room to watch her patient’s vital signs as it started to take effect.

Hermione discarded her mask and took the small dropper and the vessels containing the prepared potion from her evening bag. Lucius handed her the tube containing the Winter’s Master and she carefully measured three drops into one of the vials. Re-corking it, she shook it gently, checking frequently to make sure that everything was mixing as it should – when the potion turned a bright gold, it was finished. Hermione administered the concoction as Wells lifted her patient’s head. Once that had been done, she joined the healer on the other side of the bed to cast her own spell to check Narcissa’s vital signs, mightily offending Wells in the process.

“ _If_ you don’t _mind_ ,” the healer said, trying to shoulder Hermione out of the way.

She was elbowed her right back. “I _do_ mind, as a matter of fact,” Hermione sharply retorted. Wells pressed her lips into a hard, thin line, but nothing more was said and both women proceeded with their own diagnostics.

Lucius smiled slightly as he otherwise watched impassively from the foot of the bed. Hermione couldn’t read his expression, but she knew that he was mustering supreme control of his emotions.

“What now?” he asked dispassionately when the two of them ceased their movements.

“We wait, Mr. Malfoy,” Wells sternly replied.

“The next dose needs to be administered in twenty minutes,” Hermione told him more gently, moving away from the bed so that the healer could drag over a chair to sit next to it proprietarily. “We won’t see any drastic changes until the second vial is administered.”

Wells was distinctly unwelcoming of the pair, and spying the door to the balcony, Hermione stepped out into the fresh night air. A moment later, the door clicked back into place and Lucius joined her. He took out a cigarette, lit it with his wand, and drew deeply, the smoke drifting past her.

“Those aren’t good for wizards any more than they are for Muggles,” she observed. He leaned on the railing and stared out into the moonlit night.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked softly without looking at her.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “Life is sacred,” she offered rather automatically.

“That’s a very _Muggle_ platitude,” he observed without emotion.

“It doesn’t make it any less true,” she swiftly rejoined. “Why are _you_ doing this?” she asked. “You almost seem . . . _indifferent_ , but I don’t think you really are.”

He stared at her for a moment before turning away, taking another drag from his cigarette. “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always,” she said wearily, “but I happen to be pretty smart, regardless of what you may think about Muggleborns.”

He glowered at her briefly before looking away once more.

“Being pure bloods, ours was an arranged marriage, Miss Granger, a practice that is quickly going out of fashion,” he noted neutrally. She didn’t want to ask whether or not he thought that was a good thing or a bad one. “It was a sound alliance between our families if not exactly a great passion on a personal level, but we rubbed along fairly well together. Not long after we married, I became one of the Dark Lord’s followers” – she registered that he did _not_ call himself a Death Eater – “and our future looked . . . promising. When Draco came along, the bond between us grew . . . _stronger_.” He paused as his fingers played with the cigarette. “But the Dark Lord’s return wasn’t _quite_ what we had expected it would be,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “We soon drifted apart – she had the house, the clothes, and all the right social circles that befitted her status, and I had . . . .” He trailed off, turning away to take another puff. “The only _real_ thing that kept us together these last few years was our son,” he continued. “But when the Dark Lord recruited him – more or less _forced_ him to take the Dark Mark as his wretched father had done . . . .”

Again, he couldn’t finish the sentence, and he stubbed out the spent cigarette on the balustrade. “Anyway, the recriminations quickly began, and they have _never_ stopped. She may have been eager in the beginning, but still none of this would have happened – _none_ of it – if I hadn’t been so fucking . . . .” He couldn’t even say it aloud. He reached for another cigarette.

Hermione was taken aback at the self-recrimination, and stared at him with some degree of surprise.

“Yes, Miss Granger,” he said regretfully, taking a full draw and forcefully blowing out the smoke, “I have reflected long and _hard_ on what I have wrought. I was able to keep Narcissa from having to take the Dark Mark, even against the entreaties of her _barking_ sister, but I was _impotent_ ” – he spit out the word – “in preventing my own son from being fully dragged down into the mire. So my _wife_ had to turn to someone _else_ to do what I could not.”

The shame that Severus had been the one Narcissa turned to in order to protect Draco – had even been willing to step in to kill Dumbledore to save the young man – clearly rested heavily on Lucius’s shoulders. A lot of things were starting to fall into place.

“So tonight, with me, in front of Severus was payback,” she observed softly, remembering Lucius’s hands intimately upon her person.

“For _both_ of us, it would appear,” he looked at her knowingly as he brought the cigarette to his lips. She blushed at the memory.

“But you must owe him some kind of life debt,” she stated.

Lucius didn’t flinch. “Well, technically, _Draco_ owes him, but your point is well taken.” He studied her through the drifting smoke. “You do realize that, for all the flirting and innuendo, I would not have taken advantage of you, Miss Granger.”

“But the nerve regeneration potion for Severus . . . .”

“That was before I knew what you were to him,” he cut her off.

“And now?”

“I’m not a complete cad,” he said wryly, “only partially – I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to offend the ones who have stood by me and mine over the years, no matter what I may have implied previously.”

She thought a moment. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you doing this for Narcissa?”

He turned away to stare out into the darkness once more. “I owe it to her, if nothing else. She is under my protection and . . . I _owe_ it to her, and to Draco.”

“You know, it doesn’t have to be like that anymore.”

He glanced briefly at her before looking away. “Some pathetic Muggle couples counseling, Miss Granger?”

His comment stung a bit. “I’m not so foolish or naïve to think that everything can easily go back to the way it was, but I don’t think you’d want it to anyway, would you?” she stated more than asked. “It was never . . . _real_ before. And what you have now is . . . .” she struggled for the right word.

“ _Untenable_ ,” he offered.

“Then change it,” she said firmly.

He smiled indulgently at her. “The young always think things are _so_ easy.” She didn’t reply, and they stood there quietly for a while, she looking out into the darkness and he studying her profile. “What’s this . . . this _arrangement_ with Severus you mentioned tonight?” he finally asked. She sighed heavily.

“That bad?”

“Severus wants me to see other people this year to make sure it’s really him I want to be with,” she replied somewhat dejectedly.

“That’s unusually _broad minded_ of him,” Lucius commented with some surprise. “And I suppose you insisted that the agreement be extended to him as well?”

“Naturally,” she huffed in annoyance.

“But you didn’t expect him to act on it, did you?”

She could almost hear the smirk on his face. “It’s not exactly that I didn’t think he’d take up with someone – I mean, he gets all kinds of offers from women these days, now that he’s a hero, and if  he wants to pursue them, then it’s perfectly fine with me,” she babbled defensively.

He laughed a bit. “You’re a _terrible_ liar, Miss Granger, but I’ll let it pass – go on.”

“Well, I certainly thought he’d have better taste than . . . than _her_ ,” she said, becoming a bit teary remembering how he had caressed Natalia’s body – she knew what that felt like and didn’t want others knowing as well.

“There are no worries from _that_ quarter, I _assure_ you,” Lucius readily supplied. “Natalia is definitely _not_ his type.”

“Then why . . . .” she started.

“Who the fuck _knows_ , Miss Granger,” he interrupted. “Severus has never – _ever_ – done _anything_ without a reason.”

His comment did nothing to reassure her.

“So how many men have you tried out so far?” he bluntly asked.

“I haven’t _tried_ anyone out, as you disgustingly put it,” she responded primly.

He turned sideways, leaning an arm on the railing and appraising her with a thorough eye. “No?” he replied. “What a shame.” He took another long drag on his cigarette.

“I’ve kissed a few people, but they did nothing for me,” she informed him righteously.

“Let me guess,” he patronizingly observed. “The perennially unkempt Mr. Potter and his _sidekick_ ,” he speculated disparagingly. “And then of course there is the entirely _witless_ George Weasley, who followed you around at the Ministry ball like a love-sick _puppy_. I imagine even Mr. Longbottom – who quite against the odds has morphed into a rather passable young man – got a turn, in spite of his _insufferable_ grandmother trying to preserve his virginity until he can get over the other-worldly charms of Miss Lovegood.” She couldn’t help the blush creeping up her neck. “They are _boys_ , Miss Granger – perhaps you should try a _man_ ,” he suggested.

“I suppose you mean someone like yourself?” she responded, trying to sound dismissive but the nervous waver in her voice had a quite different effect.

He flicked away his cigarette and straightened, inching closer to her. “Are you _afraid_ , Miss Granger? Do you _fear_ that someone _other_ than the always verbally caustic potions professor could stir your _passions_?”

Her lips parted involuntarily and she found herself disconcertingly . . . _aroused_. His cologne was subtle and enticing – it was the first thing she had noticed when he picked her up that evening. She tried _not_ to recall how she had also appreciated his figure, how solicitous he had been towards her at Natalia’s swinger’s party – keeping away wizards who were too buzzed to restrain themselves – how he had challenged Wingtree when he had insulted her, and how very . . . _masculine_ he now seemed as he stood in front of her. At that moment, she couldn’t think, only feel, and when he put an arm around her waist and slowly pulled her to him, she didn’t resist, rather she tentatively stroked the fabric of his waistcoat while her other hand moved up his chest of its own volition. His piercing gaze held her captive, and he gently caressed her cheek before bracing the back of her head with his other hand.  

His lips were firm and knowing, his touch confident and experienced, and she let herself be towed under. His tongue teased and drew her out while her body intuitively molded itself against him. She could feel his erection pressed into her stomach – any other time and she would have threatened him with loss of limb if he didn’t immediately release her, but here and now, in the low light of the balcony, she clung to him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

She didn’t know how long it went on for or who pulled away first – it seemed to happen simultaneously – but they both stepped back, holding each other at arm’s length. Lucius broke the silence. “Something by which to judge others you might buss,” he said in a deep voice. “Besides, if Severus is going to beat me to a pulp later on, I’d like to have done something actually to deserve it,” he said, making a weak attempt at flippancy.

She wasn’t fooled, however – he was deeply affected, and so, too, was she, but neither was under any illusion about what had just happened. A physical attraction – a single passionate embrace – could not trump the kind of life she wanted, one in which she was actively engaged with the world around her, changing it and improving it. She would never be able to have that kind of life with someone like Lucius, who though officially rebuked and reformed was not much interested in intellectual pursuits or trying to enlighten society. By contrast, Severus stimulated her, criticized her, and simply _challenged_ her at every turn to be her very best – with him, there were never ever any illusions, which she preferred over the artificial circle that the Malfoys enjoyed. Standing there with Lucius on the moonlit balcony, things suddenly felt very clear to her, and she found that she desperately wanted Severus in that moment.

Her reverie was interrupted by someone ostentatiously clearing their throat behind her.

“It’s time for Mrs. Malfoy’s next dose,” Healer Wells announced officiously. She looked at them reprovingly before turning on her heel. With an awkward glance behind her, she preceded Lucius into the hospital room.

Hermione followed the procedure for the second dose, which started to take noticeable effect almost immediately, judging from the readings that she and Healer Wells saw from their diagnostics. Narcissa’s color improved and she looked considerably more at ease - she responded forcefully when the tip of the healer’s wand was run up the sole of one foot.

“It would seem that the potion is doing its work,” Wells reported. “Since it’s _long_ past visiting hours, you can both _go_ , now,” she announced imperiously.   

It was indeed past midnight, and they walked silently to the apparition point. When they got there, he held out his arm. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself home,” Hermione informed him, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“McGonagall would have my guts for her tartan garters if I didn’t see you properly home,” he replied, “not to mention Severus,” he added under his breath. She didn’t argue, and almost instantaneously they were at the gates of Hogwarts. “I will see you at least to the front door of this institution, Miss Granger,” he said when she tried to pull away. She sighed in resignation.

As the old door creaked and she started to go in, Lucius stayed her. “I wouldn’t blame you if you thought my gratitude was insincere, but I truly _do_ thank you, Miss Granger. As difficult as our lives now are, I confess I . . . I would have been rather lost without her.”

She smiled slightly. “It’s now up to you, Lucius – the kind of marriage that you want. She will still need some dedicated home care – seize the opportunity, don’t relegate it to the house elves.”

He briefly acknowledged her advice before turning on his heel and walking back to the apparition point.  

Hermione felt distinctly discombobulated as she trudged up to her rooms. Her anger with Severus had dissipated considerably over the course of the evening, muted in part by Lucius’s embrace. She had enjoyed it immensely, but all it had really done was sharpen her perspective on what she wanted – and what she did _not_.

She changed into her nightgown and robe before flooing both Minerva and Duggins to tell them that the potion had been successful. She also thought about trying to contact Severus as well, but decided that some things really _were_ best left until morning when heads would be clearer, so she went to bed instead, falling asleep almost the instant she slipped between the sheets.

Malfoy Manor was dark when Lucius returned. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, but it wasn’t food he wanted. When he entered the study he passingly flicked his wand at the hearth and a fire quickly bathed the room in a soft glow – it was just enough light to distinguish between the cut glass decanters, one containing the brandy his wife preferred and the other his finest whiskey. He had just taken his first, satisfying sip when he realized that he wasn’t alone. He stiffened.

“Let me set my glass down before you hex me, if you would, Severus – these were a wedding present and Narcissa is very fond of them,” he said, throwing back the remaining liquor in his tumbler before placing the vessel on the side board and slowly turning around.

“I don’t give a _flying fuck_ about your _fucking_ glasses, Lucius,” Severus snarled ominously, stepping out of the shadows on the other side of the room, wand in hand.

The two men stared at one another as the fire crackled and hissed, one tensed to strike and the other quietly resigned to being struck. Lucius’s shoulders finally fell, and he moved to stand in the center of the room.

“Just _do_ it, already,” he finally said wearily, keeping his arms at his side.

In an instant, Severus closed the space between them, his wand against his friend’s throat. “ _Don’t_ think that I _won’t_ , Lucius,” he growled. When Lucius didn’t respond, Severus pulled back slightly, still seething but now also curious. “What the bloody hell were you doing there tonight?” he demanded.

“Meeting Wingtree, as you clearly already know,” he replied sarcastically, pointing out the obvious. Severus stepped further back, lowering his wand slightly – Lucius turned and sat down in one of the two upholstered Queen Anne chairs angled in front of the hearth.

“What sort of dealings can you possibly have with that piece of shite?” Severus continued, sitting down cautiously in the chair across from his host, his wand still at the ready, just in case.

“Haven’t you _heard_?” Lucius asked somewhat incredulously.

“Heard _what_?” he replied suspiciously.

Lucius stared into the fire. “Cissy was attacked two – no, now three – days ago. Surely someone at the Ministry told you, given that you’re trying to track down these animals.”

“I’ve been out of contact with Shacklebolt for several days, following up on leads,” he supplied. “Is she alright?”

“No, she bloody well isn’t,” he spat, “or at least _wasn’t_ until this evening. The fucking healers _knew_ the potion she needed but said that only a licensed potioneer was allowed to make it, and of course they couldn’t find anyone willing to brew it, not for the wife of the most hated man in wizarding Britain, never mind the fact that I’ve been officially rehabilitated. It was all bollocks of course – some higher-up getting their own back at me, taking it out on my wife – so I went to McGonagall when I couldn’t find you.”

Severus breathed a bit easier and relaxed into the chair. “She got Hermione to brew it.”

“With guidance from your mentor,” he filled in. “Your stores were missing the Winter’s Master, which Duggins also didn’t have, so I got in touch with Wingtree.”

“Why couldn’t you have gone alone?” he continued to interrogate. “She has no business being around those people.”

“She had to verify that it was the genuine article,” Lucius interrupted.

“ _You_ could have done that,” he chastised.

“And what would have been the fun in that?” Lucius couldn’t help but respond mischievously.

Severus noticeably tightened the grip on his wand.

“Oh for fuck’s _sake_ ,” Lucius immediately countered, this time with rather less amusement. “She brewed the potion, was specifically instructed by Duggins on what to look for in the ingredient – it was sensible for her to come. And before you ask, Wingtree wouldn’t go anywhere near St. Mungo’s, nervous bugger – thinks someone’s after him.”

“Someone _is_ ,” Severus supplied.

“You?”

“No, actually – Moran Ledbetter. I found out that he’s been selling Wingtree some of the more, shall we say, _exotic_ plants from his father’s greenhouse. The Ministry threatened to put Wingtree out of business if he didn’t cooperate, so he’s been gathering information for us the last couple of months. But now he thinks Ledbetter suspects him and wants protection. I set up a meeting to negotiate terms, but then _you_ showed up and all hell broke loose,” he said disgustedly.

“Was it Ledbetter?” Lucius asked.

“I assume so – they got away.”

“And Wingtree?”

“At St. Mungo’s, despite his earlier reticence – he’s injured, but not seriously. Turns out he was likely right, though – Ledbetter probably _is_ trying to kill him,” Severus smiled wickedly.

“Is he responsible for all of these attacks?”

“Possibly, but we need more information.”

There was still one unanswered question. “So, what were you doing pimping yourself to Natalia?” Lucius asked.

At that, Severus ran a hand across his tired brow. “She, too, gets some of her supplies from Ledbetter.”

“I see,” Lucius smirked

“Hermione won’t,” Severus mumbled.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucius replied thoughtfully. “She’s . . . .” He trailed off.

“She’s _what_?” he demanded with some agitation.  

“Sensible,” he decided after some thought. “Whiskey?” he inquired, getting up to fix their drinks.

Severus looked at him speculatively, narrowing his eyes as his friend poured out doubles. “If I ever had the _slightest_ inkling that that you had behaved inappropriately with her . . . .”

“. . . . you’d rip out my liver with a spoon,” he finished for him. “Yes, yes, I already _know_ that.” His hand trembled slightly as he prepared their tumblers – he could only hope that Hermione would have the good sense to keep their _encounter_ to herself. He presented Severus with his whiskey before sitting back down, and as he sipped the burning liquid, he looked across to his companion, who was eying him over the rim of the glass, an entirely threatening expression on his face.  

“I’m glad we _understand_ each other,” he said menacingly, the warning behind his words unmistakable. Lucius smiled weakly before giving the drink in his hand the attention it really deserved. 

It was going on two in the morning when Severus finally fell into his own bed. He slept rather well all things considered, and strode into breakfast sufficiently prepared to go at least several rounds with Hermione. But the witch who greeted him did so rather hesitantly, and was polite if a bit subdued – it wasn’t quite what he was expecting. As they got up to leave, Minerva maddeningly stopped to apprise him of the preceding day’s events – Hermione left them to it, knowing that he’d be joining her in the lab soon enough.

She was just setting out the equipment she needed for that day’s work when the door to his quarters opened and closed. She heard the loud crack of a house elf coming and going – twice – and then he was standing in the door way. 

“Tea,” he stated informatively before turning away.  

She followed behind and took the chair opposite him in front of the fire. They said nothing as he served her a cup, fixed just as she preferred it.

“I was rather . . . _surprised_ to see you at Natalia’s last night,” he ventured, keeping his voice neutral.

“Yes, I . . . I imagine so,” she said calmly, sipping her tea, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Lucius told me about what happened to Narcissa – it was good of you to step up to help.”

“It was no trouble, not really,” she replied.

“I understand you saved her life.”

She raised her head at that. “It was a joint effort.”

“That’s very . . . _generous_ of you.” The silence between them was palpable – she clearly wasn’t going to raise the issue with him, so he would have to. “I should explain . . . .”

“There isn’t anything to explain, Severus,” she interrupted. “I’m sure you had a good reason to be there last night,” she conceded rather forlornly. “And even if you didn’t, it really isn’t any of my business. This is what we agreed to.” She gulped at her tea if only to keep herself from tearing up.

“As I’ve mentioned before, Natalia can be a valuable source of information, as can some of the people who attend her parties, like Wingtree, who I had arranged to meet – that was my only purpose in being there.”

As she looked at him across the space, she knew he was telling the truth, but she was also fully aware of what he _wasn’t_ saying, which was that he would have slept with Natalia if necessary in order to get the information he needed.

“You’re wrong,” he stated bluntly.

 Realizing what he had just done, she became indignant. “Stay out of my mind!”  

“And have you think the worst of me? I’m not playing _that_ game anymore,” he answered determinedly. “I had a bottle of distilled valerian with me. If it had come to it, I would have drugged her champagne and planted false memories.”

She suddenly felt guilty – _very_ guilty – and put her now empty cup and saucer on the coffee table. She wrung her hands. “In the interest of . . . of full _disclosure_ ,” she began hesitantly, “you should know that Lucius kissed me last night.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied matter-of-factly, barely keeping a lid on his temper.

“How do you . . . _know_?” she inquired nervously.

“Did you seriously think I _wouldn’t_?” he asked tightly.

Now she was becoming fearful. “What have you done to him? You . . . you didn’t _hurt_ him, did you?” she asked almost accusingly.

“Of course not, you silly girl,” he snapped, “but I confess I find it _touching_ ,” he drawled contemptuously, “that you suddenly care so much about what happens to him. Just so you know, he _won’t_ be taking you into his arms anytime in the near future. I didn’t want you to have these . . . these . . . these _experiences_ just so you could take up with him.”

“I thought you were friends!” she said, almost accusingly.

“We’re not _that_ friendly,” he sharply countered.

“It’s just as well,” she swiftly replied. “He’s definitely _not_ my prince,” she said meaningfully, returning his stare.

He clenched his jaw, but otherwise didn’t push it further. “There is something else we need to talk about,” he began as calmly as he could. “Things are clearly heating up with these attacks. I can set assignments for my classes to work on when I need to be away, but it’s important that you continue to get the daily practice, instruction, and supervision you need for the guild exams – it’s not enough just working on your project. So I’m going to take you over to Duggins’s island this morning before I go back to the Ministry to meet with Kingsley.”

She wanted to protest this change in plan, but on the whole it was sensible enough – there were so many little things about the profession that she needed to know and could only get from regular contact with an experienced potioneer. “How long do you think I’ll need to be there?”

“Hopefully not more than a few weeks, if we’re lucky.”

“You’ll take care of yourself?” she ventured with concern.

 “Have you ever known me _not_ to be careful?” he quickly retorted. She couldn’t help but grin in response. “Duggins still has a fully stocked lab, including a comprehensive storeroom, but if you need any specialized ingredients, you should take them with you.” He reached down next to his chair and handed her the saddlebag he had dug out earlier. “Just be mindful that everything – your personal belongings as well as anything from my lab – all has to fit in here.”

Hermione gathered up her notes along with a small array of special ingredients and took only what she considered to be the essentials for her personal needs. Everything fit, but only just, and he gave her a sharp look when she appeared in her usual flying gear with the bulging bags slung over her shoulder.

It was an uneventful ride – apart from her trying to climb up his back in her usual terror – and Duggins took her arrival in his stride, just as he did most things. They had tea and she walked Severus back up to the cliff side afterwards to say goodbye. He was about to turn and mount his broom when she flung herself into his arms. He clasped her to him.

“If you don’t take care of yourself, I’m going to raise fucking hell when I next see you!” she informed him. She let him go and stepped back. As he blasted off he heard her shout one last time.

“And you’d better bloody floo me!”


	12. Master Duggins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is thoroughly tested by Master Duggins, although their work together is rudely interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are very quiet readers! Let me know if you're enjoying this - it helps keep me writing! Next week's title is James and Jean Granger. For those of you in North America, have a great Thanksgiving!

**Master Duggins**

Hermione barely had time to unpack her personal things before Duggins took her out to the lab. She was immediately struck by how much Severus had modeled his own facilities on that of his mentor – the similarities made her feel quite at home. She pulled out her notes and stash of ingredients, informing Duggins where she was putting things so that he would have a mental image of their whereabouts. Spreading out her papers, the two of them pulled up stools and sat at the stainless steel work counter as she went over what she had done recently. Duggins listened attentively, asking questions and making observations now and again, which she duly acknowledged. With little prompting, she laid out what she wanted to do over the coming weeks. They broke for lunch, but then spent the rest of the afternoon in the lab. Hermione explained her every move, her every experiment with the various stages of the potion she was trying to make, while Duggins serenely took it all in, perched at the end of the counter safely out of her way. She went to bed that evening both thoroughly invigorated and completely sated from having been able to talk to someone as she worked.  

Only a few hours later, Duggins work her up – based on the clock chiming in his front hall, it was just going on 4:00 a.m. Silhouetted rather ominously in the doorway, he asked her to dress as quickly as she could and meet him down in the lab. She was certain that he had bad news, but when she joined him he was sitting peacefully in his usual place.

“What’s happened to Severus?” she asked, a bit breathless with trepidation.

“Nothing’s happened to Severus,” he calmly replied.

“Then . . . then why . . . .” she spluttered confusedly.

“I have a scenario for you, Miss Granger. Imagine, if you will, that you are called to the infirmary at Hogwarts. A twelve-year-old student lies injured on one of the beds. The individual tripped and fell in the Forbidden Forest and now has a gash on their hand and some scratches on their legs. They also apparently banged their head when they fell and a large bruise is forming around the broken skin near the right temple. They were unconscious when they were found so there is no certainty as to when the accident happened. The individual is pale, perspiring, has a rapid heart rate, and is breathing shallowly. The medi-witch standing in for the truly _wondrous_ Madam Pomfrey,” he said in genuine admiration, “is at a loss and has called you in to consult. Tell me what potions are needed in this situation and then prepare them.”

She stood there mute, shaking from the after-effects of the adrenaline rush, trying to take in the fact that this was an academic _exercise_. Although his eyes were unseeing, she felt his . . . his _presence_ piercing her.

“Did I mention that time was of the essence, Miss Granger?” he prompted, though without the touch of acid that would have coated such an observation had it come from Severus.

She reached for her note pad and took down the particulars of the case before she forgot them, since asking him to repeat everything would have been the height of embarrassment.

“Think aloud, if you would, Miss Granger,” he requested.

As she looked at what she had written, she remembered something she had learned from her dentist parents, who because of their profession had emergency response training. “ABC,” she said aloud. “Airway, breathing, circulation. The airway is clear, and he . . . is it a _he_ or a _she_?”

“ _She_ ,” he replied. 

“The airway is clear but she’s breathing rapidly – that and the rapid heartbeat and perspiration is a response to something, perhaps an allergic reaction. It’s probably not an insect sting – if it were anaphylaxis, her airway would be closing off. Were there any signs of an animal bite?” she paused to ask.

“No.”

“People are allergic to pollen, mold, fungi,” she continued, “but usually only chronically, although if introduced into the blood stream . . . the cut to the hand, the scratches on the legs . . . .” She paused for a moment to think before briskly moving on. “Circulation – there could be internal bleeding – does she have a concussion?”

“No.”

“Then it’s going to be an allergic reaction of some kind, but is it Muggle or magical?” she asked herself. “Was she found near any plants?”

“The person who brought her in didn’t notice,” he informed her.

“No of _course_ they bloody didn’t,” she muttered under her breath “probably a fourth-year who didn’t realize they were even _in_ the forest,” she nattered on. “The forest means that _both_ are possibilities – whatever it is could have been in the _air_ , or introduced by way of the gash on the hand or scratches on her legs,” she commented to herself. “I need to make something to cover all the bases . . . .” And then, something clicked at the back of her mind and she stilled – of _course_ , that _had_ to be it.

She turned towards Duggins, a sly smile playing on her lips. “The scratches on her legs – were they caused by thorned pasture flax?

“Why do you ask?” he asked, giving nothing away.

“It’s thought that in ancient times magical animals wandered into Muggle areas to graze and carried back flax seeds on their coats. Over time, these seeds mingled with the thorned pasture weed in the forest’s open glens and mutated, becoming a hybrid. In its current form, it grows as ground cover, so there’s rarely any skin-to-plant contact, but if one tripped, you could get badly scratched.”

“And why would it produce this kind of a cardio-respiratory reaction?” he queried almost innocently.

“Muggle flax has estrogen properties that have become enhanced over time in the magical hybrid variety – it’s sometimes used in potions to help witches cope with the symptoms of menopause, but it could have a disastrous effect on a younger woman. The girl is what – twelve? – which means she’s either in or on the cusp of puberty – the hormonal overload could easily produce this kind of reaction.”

“And what is your source for this hypothesis?”

“Fletcher Beaker produced a volume on the flora and fauna of the Forbidden Forest back in the ‘seventies. Fortunately, he was a Muggleborn interested in biology, and he noted the various attributes of the indigenous plants in the forest, differentiating them with their counterparts in the Muggle world.”

A smile slowly broke across Duggins’s face. “Very good, Miss Granger, very good _indeed_. Now, for the second part of this exercise, the potion that will address these issues if you will be so kind.”

It was a straightforward potion to prepare – just eight, basic ingredients – but there was nothing common or elemental about the complaint it was intended to address, and when she finished and Duggins had sniffed and tasted the results, she had to ask.

“Have you ever encountered this situation before, Mr. Duggins?” she questioned as she began to clean up.

“Not personally, no, but a German colleague of mine once faced something very similar. He wrote up his experience and tried to get it published in _Potioneer’s Monthly_ about fifteen years ago but the then editor thought it was so rare an incident that it didn’t merit the space or attention.”

The silence descended again, and as she washed, dried, and put away the equipment, she had the distinct feeling that she was still missing something, though what it was she couldn’t quite say. By the time she finished, Bramble had breakfast on the table, and she spent the rest of the day working on her project, with Duggins occasionally wandering in to ask her questions or just listen to her describe what she was then doing. They had a pleasant dinner and she, rather than Bramble, was given the honor of reading the _Daily Prophet_ to him afterwards in front of the fire. She retired early, hoping to catch up on the sleep she had missed. As she lay in bed, she recalled how excited and energized she had been only the day before, thoroughly engrossed as she was with her experiments and getting on with her work, and how all of that had now been tempered by the early morning exercise. In the dying hours of the day, she had her second epiphany.

Duggins was already having his morning meal when she came down, and Bramble promptly put a full plate in front of her. As she buttered her toast, she looked at the old gentleman sitting across the table. One could easily mistake his outer appearance for mere eccentricity – neat salt-and pepper moustache and goatee, horned half-rimmed glasses, robes with appliqued swirls along the edges of the garment, and a soft tri-cornered cap the tips of which dipped downwards. One could also confuse the gentle tranquility he always exuded with timidity – until the day before even _she_ had underestimated him to some extent. But beneath the exterior lay a vibrant spirit as strong and fierce as his keen intellect, an individual brimming with human compassion but no one’s fool – his feyness more than made up for the loss of his sight, although she suspected that it was an ability that he had probably had from birth. He had put her through her paces without hesitation, knowing full well _exactly_ what he was doing. 

“Yesterday’s early morning exercise – you wanted me to temper my enthusiasm,” she stated carefully as she bit into her toast.

He smiled indulgently. “I just wanted you to put it, and everything else, into a workable perspective,” he said not unkindly. “There is no question that enthusiasm is an essential element in all research, but how will you deal with things when – _not if_ – your progress stalls? Because I can assure you that it will falter, if not with this project then with another down the road. How will you be able to cope when that happens? You have to learn to put your expectations in perspective in order to weather the failures.”

She considered his observation and nodded slowly in agreement, even though he couldn’t see her do it. “Something similar happened when I first started talking to potential subjects for this project,” she admitted. “It was . . . _sobering_ knowing that I might be getting people’s hopes up only to dash them later if my work doesn’t pan out – it’s fitting that I be reminded of that,” she acknowledged. “Severus would no doubt describe my earnest optimism as part of my insufferable Gryffindor makeup,” she apologized sheepishly.  

He shrugged his shoulders. “While you do indeed exhibit what are said to be typical Gryffindor attributes – and these will no doubt help keep you focused and on course with your work – no one is wholly one thing or another. From what I understand of your quest for the ingredients for Severus’s nerve regeneration potion, you displayed many qualities that might be said to be Slytherin.”

She couldn’t help but snicker at the implication. “And I suppose there is a bit of Gryffindor in Severus!”

Duggins also smiled. “He is possessed of great boldness, of both mind and body, Miss Granger, and for years demonstrated a level of self-sacrifice and bravery that would put many Gryffindors to shame.” She couldn’t have agreed more. “I had many debates with Albus about the house system at Hogwarts – the way students were sorted seemed a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you were sorted into Ravenclaw, then of course you strove to live up to expectations and became a good scholar, but at what expense?”

“And if you were sorted into Slytherin, you tried to fit in by . . . by . . . .” she trailed off.

“By being devious and deceitful,” he unhesitatingly finished for her. “Albus was _all_ of those things and more, and yet was a Gryffindor. House affiliations are deceptive and, I think, potentially detrimental to cultivating well-rounded individuals. Fortunately, they _can_ be overcome,” he smiled knowingly at her. “Do have some of Bramble’s scrambled eggs,” he suggested, somehow perceiving that she hadn’t yet touched the food.

Over the following two weeks, Duggins tested her as thoroughly as Severus had ever done. With Bramble’s help, he set out containers of various ingredients on the table for her to identify – she was required to wear a blindfold since Duggins couldn’t chance removing the labels if only for the sake of his house elf, and it gave her a new respect for his abilities. At unexpected times of the day and a few more times in the wee hours of the morning she had to stop what she was doing or get out of bed to prepare a number of potions, sometimes from a book but just as often without one, relying on her instincts. She could see where Severus had gotten his own teaching methods.

She didn’t hear much from Severus, but realistically she didn’t expect to, what with him trying to keep up with his own classes while also working with the Ministry, but the brief conversations they had managed through the floo in Duggins’s sitting room was sufficient to allay her concerns on his behalf and she didn’t complain. The Ministry still hadn’t been able to confirm that the attacks were being orchestrated by Moran Ledbetter, but Severus was personally in no doubt. 

Near the end of the third week, just before lunch, she heard some loud popping noises followed by what sounded like electrical sizzling – it all sounded familiar in an ominous way. Stepping out of the lab into the back garden, she looked around. Seeing nothing of concern and about to return to her work, she heard them again and looked up, and what she saw then struck fear into her heart. Someone – or possibly more than one – was trying to penetrate Duggins’s wards. She dashed into the house but got only so far as the kitchen, where the wizard was giving Bramble instructions on an emergency plan that had clearly been set out years before.

“Mr. Duggins,” she began rather breathlessly, but he interrupted before she could continue.

“ _Calm_ yourself, Miss Granger – I know we have guests, and unfriendly ones at that. Please go and pack your notes and personal things as quickly as you can – meet me at the front door when you’re finished.”

Rushing back to the lab, she grabbed all of her papers and took them to her room where she stuffed them in one side of Severus’s saddle bag. She filled the other one with her personal belongings and was putting on her flying kit even as she bolted down the stairs. Duggins was waiting for her at the front door as promised, holding a rather beat-up old broom – her heart sank when she saw it. In other circumstances, she would have considered it an entirely _sensible_ broom – decades older than she was and likely second hand when Duggins originally bought it. It was perfectly suited for old gentlemen like Duggins and nervous fliers such as herself, but woefully inadequate in the face of an attack by probable renegade Death Eaters.

Somehow, he sensed her concerns. “I admit it can’t compare with Severus’s, but it served me well for many years and I think it should do the job,” he said optimistically. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing for the door.

“But, what about your things? Aren’t you taking anything with you?”

“Bramble has it all under control, I assure you, Miss Granger – we’ve had a contingency plan for such an event for years, now. After you,” he gestured politely. She tried to hurry the old wizard along, but he positively strolled up the path to the cliff, all while loud popping and sizzling sounds serenaded them. When they reached the top, she looked back. She couldn’t see the attackers, who were apparently on the other side of the island, but the sparks from their spells bouncing off the wards were visible enough.

In the harsh light of day, the broom looked even older and more worn – she commanded it to hover and was surprised when it actually responded. Securing the saddle bags, she mounted it before helping Duggins to climb on behind her – the broom dipped ominously with the added weight. Duggins put his arms loosely around her and she tentatively leaned forward, trying to get a sense of how much power the broom actually had – it wasn’t reassuring as the broom slowly inched towards the edge of the cliff. She leaned even further until her face was half way to the handle and finally the roiling sea appeared beneath them, a _very_ long way down.

She quickly realized that they were going to have to circle around to the other side of the island in order to head east, though she wanted to put some distance between it and them so they would be less likely to be seen. She couldn’t go too far out before making the turn, however, because if they were spotted, they’d have no protection whatsoever, since brooms couldn’t be shielded and they didn’t have enough power to get swiftly away – they needed to be able to return to the beach to seek cover if it came to it. She kept only ten feet or so above the ocean – sea spray dampened their legs – in the hope that the waves would camouflage their movement. As they got closer to where they needed to be, she could see two people in the near distance flying a good deal higher than they were, whittling away at Duggins’s defenses – she breathed easier when they finally turned east, but the relief was short-lived, as spells suddenly exploded on either side of the broom. Ahead of her was the fog bank, which drew out every morning and came back in as the day waned – if she could reach it in time it would give them some protective cover.

But the attackers were closing in on them, outstripping Duggins’s economy broom. When one spell exploded to their left, mere feet away, she quickly steered the broom in that direction – the movement was sluggish, but it spared them from being hit by a second spell that veered to their right. She zig-zagged their way forward as much as she dared, trying desperately to squeeze out every last ounce of speed possible. Just as they were blanketed by cold, wet air, a barrage of spells went off around them – the attackers were now firing blindly. She pressed on and eventually, they were alone. She was just starting to relax when Duggins voiced a concern in her ear.

“We’re approaching the shore line – you’ll have to fly higher or we won’t get over the cliffs,” he said quite matter-of-factly.

 _Won’t get over the cliffs?!_ It had completely escaped her attention that there were rocky cliffs along that part of the Scottish coast line – she hadn’t really noticed before since she’d always flown much higher, but now they loomed large, in every sense.  

The only thing she could think to do was to resume the zig-zag pattern and try ease the broom ever upwards. She turned sharply to the right and counted to fifty, and then swung around and counted to one-hundred in order to keep them on track as much as possible – she was essentially flying blind since she couldn’t see much beyond the tip of the broom. Ten minutes passed before Duggins announced that they were clear, though it was a mystery to her exactly how he knew that. She straightened out the broom accordingly. She wasn’t sure how far off course they would be, but once there was _terra firma_ beneath them, navigating would at least be easier. When the fog slowly dissipated she was pleasantly surprised to recognize landmarks below her – they were safe.

Or so she briefly thought.

That the attackers would be waiting for them was always a possibility, and so it proved to be the case. They were well north, but with their newer brooms they would catch up quickly, at which point she and Duggins would be prime targets high up in the air. Once more, she dropped low to the ground, skirting as best she could the edge of woodlands that flanked open fields. By the time their attackers were within striking distance, the Forbidden Forest was only a short way off, and it became clear that she would have to fly in among the trees if they were going to have any chance of getting away. Even Harry and Ron, who were daredevil fliers, had balked at doing that – it was foolhardy in the extreme. She scanned for some open yet protected space where they could land – maybe they could run the rest of the way to the forest. And if Duggins was too slow, perhaps he could shield her while she defended them – she had no idea of whether that was even possible for a blind wizard, but she was running out of ideas.

Duggins interrupted her thoughts once more. “Keep flying,” he told her.

“But the forest!” she exclaimed, far too preoccupied with the looming obstacles to discuss their options further.  

And then, she felt his hand grasp her shoulder, and a sense of calmness, overlaid with an inner clarity, spilled over her. She relaxed into the broom as they sped into the shadowy forest. She was pin-point focused on the paths that meandered through the groves – although the broom was slow in comparison to Severus’s, trees were still mere blurs in her peripheral vision, and in her mind’s eye she was high above, watching them weave back and forth, stirring tree branches as they breezed past but never touching them. She lost all sense of time as they flew – it seemed both forever and yet only minutes. She was almost disappointed when they finally came out on the other side of the forest.

But reality burst upon them almost as quickly as the sun – the attackers were nothing if not persistent. Hermione continued on determinedly towards the school’s Quidditch field where a match was in progress. She would never forget the astonishment on everyone’s face when they crested the bleachers, flew straight through the action, and landed on the pitch. The confused players paused mid-action to see what was going on, but the instant they realized that the strangely attired flyer and the diminutive wizard were under attack, they turned their wands toward the aggressors, chasing them for several miles before breaking off.

Minerva was the first one to reach them, and when Hermione tore off her goggles and scarf, looking every bit as shaky as she felt, the headmistress impulsively embraced her.

“Oh, my dear! What on _earth_ is going on?” she asked. “Are you alright?” With one arm still around her, she began barking out orders to clear the field and get everyone inside the castle. Hermione pulled away and took Duggins’ arm. She started to make introductions, but Minerva stayed her.

“Mr. Duggins and I are old friends, are we not, Æthelbert?” Duggins smiled warmly in her direction and held out his hand. When Minerva grasped it, he stepped closer. “Old friends indeed,” he said gently.  

Once they were safely ensconced in Minerva’s office and refreshments had been arranged, the headmistress sent her _Patronus_ to Severus. They filled her in on their encounter as they ate their finger sandwiches, and were just starting their second cup of tea when Severus burst through the hearth – he needed only one look at the pair to know they had just had a lucky escape of some kind. His eyes drifted frequently over to Hermione as Duggins once more recounted their adventure.  

Hermione pulled up her legs and nestled deeper into the sofa as he spoke – it was probably disrespectful, but she really didn’t care, since it was considerably less scandalous than crawling into Severus’s lap and sniffling into his shoulder. Warm and sated, Duggins’s even voice soon had her dozing.

When Duggins got to the part about the Forbidden Forest, Minerva couldn’t help herself, even though it was the second time she was hearing it. “That was unbelievably dangerous,” she whispered incredulously, careful not to wake the young woman on her sofa.  

Severus knew, however, that the wizard had undoubtedly extended his inner eye to her, and that they had overcome both the obstacles and the danger _together_ , but he wasn’t going to share that with Minerva – Hermione was entirely deserving of the headmistress’s pride.  

“A more pressing issue concerns what they were after – do you have any ideas?” Minerva inquired anxiously of Severus.

He knew only too well what they were likely after, but he had to check the other possibilities first, however remote they were. “Is there anything that they might want from your house or lab?” he asked his mentor.

“Nothing that I can think of, but even if there is and they go back looking for it, it will appear as though the house has burned, so they won’t find anything.”

“Could you have caused Voldemort some offense,” he pressed, “enough for his followers to take revenge?”

“Mr. Malfoy was the only one I ever had any contact with, and it was near the end when came looking for the _Vita et Anima_.”

Severus turned his gaze to the young woman sleeping so quietly next to his mentor. “Then they were after _her_ – for her own sake, or to get to me,” he said somberly.

Minerva followed his gaze, worry clearly reflected in her expression. “But how would they have known she was _there_ rather than here at Hogwarts?”

“Is it possible that a student could have discovered where she had gone?” Duggins asked.

“You think one of the _students_ might be involved?” Minerva gasped, trying to take in the notion. “Now that _would_ be very troubling.”

“Indeed,” Severus drawled grimly, looking back again at Hermione dozing peacefully across from them as Duggins sipped his tea, inscrutable as ever.


	13. James and Jean Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's parents are in danger and she rises magnificently to the challenge!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this while away from home - I hope this comes through okay. I hope that those of you in North America had a great Thanksgiving! Do let me know if you like this chapter - next to the writing itself, it's my only reward! Next week's title is Moran Ledbetter.

**James and Jean Granger**

Hermione stood quietly as she watched Severus open a drawer and start to pull out papers from two different folders.

“I’m going to collate the lectures with the lab work. ‘Bert won’t need the lesson plans – just tell him what I’ve got scheduled and he’ll take it from there – but I want _you_ to see how everything is supposed to fit together. He’ll probably be there for at least some the labs as well – he can field questions but you will find that he can help in _other_ kinds of ways as well. He can, for instance, tell when a potion is off by scent alone . . . and from _quite_ some distance away,” he noted with more than a touch of respect.

“So can you,” she promptly reminded him.

“And you will too, Hermione,” he assured her, “with time and experience,” he added, deflating her ego and flattening out her growing smile. He smirked – he was still her teacher and she his pupil.  

“How long . . . .” she trailed off.

“I hope not long,” he replied noncommittally.

“Are they . . . who are they after?” she corrected, trying to sound nonchalant.  

He looked up at her, carefully considering his response – he wouldn’t lie to her, not about her own physical safety, but he also didn’t want to worry her unduly. “They are after everyone – those who fought _against_ the Dark Lord as well as those who fought _for_ him.” Seeing her confusion, he continued. “It’s obvious why you, Order members, and those who supported the side of the light might be targeted, but it’s also the case that the most die-hard of Voldemort’s surviving followers want revenge on the likes of me, Lucius, and really anyone who didn’t follow him to the grave out of some perverted sense of loyalty.”

“What about Mr. Duggins?”

“It’s hard to say,” he hedged.

“They were after me,” she said quietly.

“You and everyone else, Hermione, as I said,” he sighed with resignation.

Finally, she pulled herself together. “Then I stand in some very good company,” she said with typical Gryffindor resolution, bestowing on him a look of camaraderie.

“Indeed, but I do want to make one thing _very_ clear, Miss Granger,” he said imperiously, getting up from his desk and reverting to his formal role. “You are _not_ to leave school grounds.”

When it looked like she was going to protest that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, he narrowed his eyes, staring her down, and she capitulated. Mostly.

“I can’t imagine why I would need to anyway,” she huffed.

“See that you _don’t_ ,” he commanded severely, knowing her too well to think that she had outgrown the disobedience of her school days. He saw no reason to hammer home the point any further since he _was_ satisfied that she’d actually have no need to contravene his order – after all, her idiot friends were no longer around to tempt her into doing something foolhardy.

Hermione wanted to tell him to be careful, but knew he’d be annoyed if she demonstrated any doubts about his abilities, especially in front of at least Minerva, who joined her and Duggins in walking him to the apparition point. The headmistress, however, had no such concerns about his sensibilities.

“Take care of yourself, Severus,” she said, ignoring the scowl he immediately sent her way. “I don’t think Horace could be persuaded to come out of retirement a _second_ time, and we can’t rely on Bert or Hermione’s good will for very long,” she temporized, but he knew better – referencing the work involved in having to replace him masked a genuine concern. Put that way, he found he could accept her admonition.

“Don’t worry about your classes, Severus,” Duggins interjected. “I won’t let you down, and neither will Miss Granger,” his mentor assured him.

Since they weren’t going to have a private goodbye, he merely nodded at Hermione and she responded with a faint smile. He was one of if not _the_ most powerful of all the wizards in Britain, but no one was invincible, as had recently been proved. He was gone in an instant, and the three of them made their way back to the castle.

The two weeks that followed were relatively quiet. Severus flooed only once during that time, and did so to pass on the information that the Ministry had flushed out a hideaway being used by several supporters of the Dark Lord – those who were caught confirmed that Ledbetter was indeed heading a small gang bent on revenge. Minerva stepped up the night patrols in case they intended to target Hogwarts, but otherwise a routine was quickly established for his classes. Duggins conducted himself just as Severus had said he would – he lectured completely from memory, moved about the room without hesitation, and stopped at the desks of those students who were inattentive. He even managed to summon a note that was being passed around none too discreetly without even breaking his train of thought. He also attended some of the labs for the sixth and seventh year students, sensing issues with potions several students were brewing even before they did, just as Severus had predicted. In spite of his handicap, his innate abilities mightily impressed the students, which quelled any mischief they might have been intending.

The students were also reasonably compliant with her as well, although that came to an end at the beginning of the second week. Hermione was twenty-minutes into the lab with the sixth-year potions class when she heard a loud commotion out in the corridor – she had just set her wand down so she could lay her hand over that of a student to help them with the spell they were supposed to cast over their cauldron when a third-year burst into the room.

“Miss! Come quick, Miss, there’s a fight!” he said breathlessly.

As she made her way swiftly to the back of the room, her students abandoned their cauldrons and spilled out into the corridor behind her. Two boys – one a Slytherin, the other a Ravenclaw – were fighting their way down the hall. Hermione didn’t hesitate and quickly stepped between them, shoving them forcefully apart.

“Enough!” she shouted, keeping them at arm’s length. “What’s going on, here?” she demanded. When neither of them replied, she turned to the young Hufflepuff who had interrupted her class and arched a questioning brow.

“A girl,” he snickered.

Hermione rolled her eyes – of _course_ it was over a girl. “Twenty-points from each of you, and you can be _assured_ that your heads of house will hear of this. Now, get back to wherever you are supposed to be!”

When Hermione turned around she realized there had been an audience – she shooed them back into the classroom and prepared to resume the lesson. After restoring some order to the class, she went back to the student’s desk where she had left her wand but found that it was missing. She was certain it had been on the table when she went to deal with the fight and she checked to see if it had fallen off and rolled away. It hadn’t. She scanned the room but saw only the tops of heads assiduously getting on with their work – no one was paying her any attention, and yet it was clear that it had been deliberately taken. She cast a discreet and wandless _Accio_ , but nothing happened. Wherever it was, her wand wasn’t in the classroom and was being prevented from finding its way back to her. This didn’t panic her since her wand, as with those belonging to staff generally, were spelled so that students couldn’t use them, and while she wanted to report the incident immediately to Minerva, for safety reasons she couldn’t leave while students were brewing and Duggins was spending the afternoon with Sprout’s fifth year class. So it was thirty-five minutes before she could get to the headmistress’s office.

“This is a bit troubling,” Minerva stated, sitting down and taking it in. “And you’re sure you didn’t mislay it?”

Hermione shook her head. “I set it on the student’s desk, next to their cauldron, while I guided their hand in the wand movements. I didn’t think to grab it before I went out of the room, and when I came back, it was gone. I cast a wandless _Accio_ , but it wasn’t in the room.”

Minerva frowned. “So whoever took it was long gone and probably enchanted it not to respond to your call,” she surmised thoughtfully. “Can you think of anyone who might have taken it?”

“I’ve gone over it again and again, and I can’t,” she said, biting her lower lip and sitting down in the chair across from her.

“Why _your_ wand and not someone else’s?” Minerva asked almost to herself, giving it some consideration.

Hermione sat forward and leaned her elbows on the desk, thinking aloud. “Especially since a Hogwarts student wouldn’t be able to use it.”

“This means,” Minerva extended the point, “that your wand was _specifically_ targeted. What is it about _your wand_?” she asked, looking at her former student as she drummed the fingers of one hand absently on the desk.

Hermione mulled over the question. “Well, it’s a record of the spells I’ve recently cast, it’s . . . it’s . . . .” Her eyes suddenly grew wide in realization. “Wands are _passports_!” she exclaimed.

Minerva slapped the desk. “It’s a record of where you’ve _been_ ,” she said emphatically.

“Someone could use it to find out that I went to Australia last summer, that I went to Melbourne where I hid my parents!” Hermione blurted out in a panic.

“A student could have taken it and portkeyed it to someone who could use it,” Minerva observed, rising immediately to her feet and calling into the hearth. “Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office, Ministry of Magic.”

Hermione stood next to her, wringing her hands and waiting for a response.

“Who’s calling, please?” a male voice rang out.

“Minerva McGonagall – who am I speaking with?” she demanded tersely.

“The Undersecretary to the Deputy Minister, professor,” the voice replied officiously.

“Percy,” they said in unison as their faces dropped.

“Mr. Weasley, we’re coming through.” Minerva flung a pinch of floo powder and took Hermione by the hand – together they stepped through the Minister of Magic’s hearth, the only private floo in the building, and immediately came face to face with a startled looking undersecretary.

“Where’s Kingsley?” Minerva asked abruptly, sidestepping any niceties.

“He’s out,” Percy said, regaining some of his haughtiness.

“Find him."

Percy swallowed, intimidated but trying hard not to show it. “I can’t, professor – he’s in France.”

“Then the deputy – where is she?” Minerva ploughed on.

“She’s . . . she’s out in the field,” he swallowed hard.

“ _Merlin’s ghost!_ And they left _you_ in charge?” she commented acerbically.

“Perhaps I can help you,” he responded, struggling to regain his dignity.

“I seriously doubt it,” she mumbled not quite _sotto voce_. “Hermione needs to get to Melbourne as soon as possible.”

“And may I ask what the emergency is?” he inquired, adopting what he hoped was a voice of authority.

Minerva narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “You may indeed,” she replied ominously. “Hermione’s wand has been stolen by a Hogwarts student and we believe it may have been passed on to a renegade Death Eater who is now, even as we waste our time here with you, on their way to Australia to murder her parents.”

Percy blanched under her withering gaze. “Umm . . . .”

“Well said, young man,” she sneered. “We need to find out if anyone has used Hermione’s wand to obtain a portkey,” she instructed as Percy simply stood there, the cogs of his brain slowly turning it all over in his mind. “Sometime in the near _future_ , Mr. Weasley?” Minerva said pointedly.

Percy stepped to the hearth and called for the portkey office, asking the official who responded to bring him a list of everyone who had portkeyed in the previous hour-and-a-half. “It will take a few minutes,” Percy explained awkwardly.

Minerva pursed her lips.

“So whoever took your wand would have to be a student – is that right?” he asked, finally grasping the seriousness of the situation.

“I can’t see who else it could have been,” Hermione replied, worriedly.

“Who is in the class?” he asked, going to Shacklebolt’s desk and picking up a quill and piece of paper, ready to take notes.

“It might not have been one of them . . . ."

“Still,” Percy responded, waiting for her to continue. Hermione took a deep breath and started to run through the names, seeing each student in her mind’s eye as she went. The undersecretary scribbled a few things as she reviewed the roll. When she finished, she looked at him expectantly.

“Well, several of the students you’ve listed have at least one parent working for the ministry in some capacity – Forest Zabini, Violet Parkinson, and Ignatius Farthingale,” he observed. “Forest and Violet’s families are on probation . . . for . . . for . . . .” he stammered, still sensitive to having sided with the Ministry over the question of the Dark Lord’s return a few years before.

“Yes, yes, we all know why they’re on probation, Mr. Weasley,” Minerva clacked, “go on.”

“I . . . I don’t know Sienna Farthingale very well . . . .”

“I know Iggy,” Hermione interrupted, “and I can’t see him doing anything like this.”

“I agree,” Minerva added, “but the other two . . . .”

Just then, the floo activated and a portkey official stepped through the hearth with the requested information. Percy held out his hand as the official’s eyes grew wide seeing Hermione standing in front of the desk. The undersecretary whipped the list from his hands and the look on his face told both witches that things had just turned very serious.

Percy cleared his throat and looked at Hermione, the parchment limp in his hands. “According to this, you portkeyed to Australia forty minutes ago,” he reported timidly.

Hermione gasped, snatching the list from him to check for herself.

“Clearly someone used polyjuice to turn themselves into you,” he said. “All they would have needed to get a portkey was your wand – they wouldn’t have had to wait given the kind of security clearance you have with the Ministry.”

“I’ve got to go!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got to go and get them!” Minerva put a steadying hand on her arm before turning to address Percy.

“She needs two portkeys – one to transport her to Melbourne and another for three people coming back.” She looked at Hermione. “Where do you want to go when you come back?”

Her parents’ old house was out of the question. There was only one place, now, where she thought they would be safe. “Hogwarts,” she replied firmly. Minerva nodded in agreement.

“A return portkey for three to Hogwarts,” she informed Percy, who started to hem and haw.

“I can’t do that!” he sputtered. “They’re Muggles – they can’t go to Hogwarts!”

“Mr. Weasley,” Minerva interrupted in her best professorial voice. “Do you _really_ want to waste time arguing over this issue or do you want to save the lives of a war hero’s parents?”

Percy shriveled under her ferocious stare and then nodded at the portkey official, who didn’t wait to be told twice.

“I need to use a phone,” Hermione said anxiously looking around the room.

Percy opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a cellphone. “The Minister straddles two worlds,” he explained, handing the device to Hermione.

She quickly put in the numbers and listened intently. The clock on the wall read 2:45 p.m., which meant that it was late evening in Australia – her parents were likely already in bed and her father might have turned off his phone or left it in another room.

The phone went to voicemail. She ended the call and immediately dialed again. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she chanted softly as she started to pace back and forth. She nearly shouted for joy when she heard the tone click on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” a gruff voice answered.

“Dad?” she asked breathlessly.

“Hermione?”

“Dad – are you and Mum alright?” she asked, trying to hide her concern.

“Of _course_ we’re alright,” he replied somewhat irritably.

Hermione took a deep breath. “Dad – I need you and Mum to leave the house.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve only just gone to bed!”

“Dad,” she said, holding on the edge of the desk to steady herself. “Dad – do you trust me?”

There was silence on the line – this was the defining moment of her renewed relationship with her parents and there was a brief pause.

“ _Yes_ ,” he replied firmly.

“Then I need you and Mum to get dressed and leave – _immediately_. Get in the car and _go_. Take only your wallets and passports. Drive to the nearest station and get on the first train you can. Go to the city center, find some place with an active nightlife – call me back at this number as soon as you get there,” she instructed. Percy was about to object to her taking the phone with her but Minerva stymied him with a glare.

“Right,” her father responded. “Your mother wants a word.”

“No,” Hermione replied hurriedly, “leave _now_.”

There was another moment of silence. “Right.”

“I’m coming for you, Dad! I’ll see you and Mum soon,” she promised, trying to sound confident when she was actually screaming inside her head.

The official had returned with the portkey coins while she was talking to her father, and Percy handed them to her when she finished the call. “An auror should go with her,” Minerva suggested to the undersecretary. It was immediately apparent that this request was problematic.

“I’m afraid they’re out on assignments – all, that is, except for a few trainees,” he blustered.

Minerva looked at him stonily. “Is Harry Potter one of them?” she asked, already knowing the answer as Percy pulled nervously at his collar.

“No, I’m afraid he’s not. But I think I could get someone if you gave me fifteen minutes,” he offered.

“There isn’t time,” Hermione said impatiently. “I’ve got to go _now_ ,” she said, moving towards the hearth.

“Perhaps Mr. Weasley could accompany you,” Minerva automatically suggested, and the two witches turned to look at the tall, weedy, and now perspiring bureaucrat.

“I think not,” Hermione quickly responded.

“You’re probably right. But before you go,” she continued, staying her, “you need a wand.” Minerva reached into her sleeve. “Take mine.”

Hermione wasn’t so foolish as to refuse. “Will it respond to me?” she asked tentatively.

“It will once I’ve cast the right spell.” Hermione and Percy both gasped as she scrapped the wand over the palm of her left hand, drawing a thin red line behind it. Hermione held out her own hand as the headmistress repeated the procedure. Clasping their hands together, Minerva cast the spell and Hermione felt the exchange of blood magic coursing through her body. When she was finished, the wounds vanished.

“There. It will respond almost as easily for you as it does for me. Now go – time is of the essence.”

Hermione grabbed some floo powder to take her to the portkey departure point when she suddenly paused.

“Severus!” she blurted out before stopping herself and looking sideways at Percy – he certainly didn’t need to know about their . . . whatever it was. “I . . . I’m his apprentice, you see,” she explained to the undersecretary.

“I’ll get the Aurors Office to contact him,” he said in his best bureaucratic tone.

“Don’t stand too near the hearth when you do,” Minerva murmured softly before turning to Hermione. “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but I’m going to anyway – _be careful_. I’ll be at Hogwarts waiting for you and your parents.”

Hermione nodded and then dashed through the fireplace.

Minerva gave Percy one last disgusted look before she, too, stepped into the floo. It took only thirty minutes for Severus to come flying through the hearth into her office.

“She went _alone_?” he stated more than asked accusingly, skipping any greeting. Minerva had been expecting him and didn’t flinch.

“Would you rather have had Mr. Weasley go with her?” she calmly responded.

“That unctuous fuck-wit piece of shite . . . .” he began to spit.

“My point exactly,” she cut him off, “and we both know I would only have slowed her down.”

“But she went without a wand!” he bellowed.

“Of course she didn’t – what on earth do you take me for?!” she rejoined pushing back her chair and coming around the desk. “Didn’t Mr. Weasley tell you _anything_?” His scowl told her all she needed to know, which was that Percy was likely lying face down on Kingsley’s expensive Persian carpet even as they spoke. “Look, she’s got _my_ wand,” she said soothingly, “and it’s been spelled to her magic – it will serve her well. Just _calm down_.”

“I _am_ perfectly calm,” he said steely, reigning himself in, but the headmistress could still discern the worry still very much in his eyes.

“Severus,” she said comfortingly, “she knows what she’s doing, and as I’ve heard you say more than once, she’s a _formidable_ witch.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We’re not talking about your average wizard, here, Minerva – it’s Moran Ledbetter and his crew,” he replied as evenly as he could. “How long as she been gone?” he asked impatiently.

She looked at the clock on the wall. “About forty minutes.”

Severus rubbed the sides of his face briskly. He stepped away from his colleague to the bank of windows behind her desk and stared out over the countryside.

“Hermione has every advantage,” Minerva said firmly. “She got them out of the house in good time, and she’s meeting them in a busy place she knows. They’re coming straight to Hogwarts and ought to be back in time for tea.”

Severus barely heard her as his thoughts raced. Moran had a reputation for unbridled brutality among the Enforcers, which was saying something given the company he kept. He had been more feared than respected and his fellow Death Eaters would gladly have murdered him if the Dark Lord hadn’t needed his particular skill-set to ensure loyalty among his followers. What was a young witch of nineteen and her middle-age Muggle parents against all that?

Hermione portkeyed directly to the city center, found a lively café and waited. Within thirty minutes, the phone rang. Her parents were only a few blocks away, and she left at once to meet them at the pub where they had taken refuge. It was a Friday night, and there were crowds on the streets, just what she was hoping for. She kept an eye out for anything suspicious, and even took the precaution of watching the establishment from across the street for fifteen minutes before daring to enter.

Once inside, she quickly spotted her parents in a corner of the room, with half-consumed pints of beer in front of them. Hermione allowed herself a bit of a smile at their attempt to blend in, although it quickly faded when she approached and read the concern in their faces.

“Hermione,” he mother began, half rising to greet her.

“Not here,” she interjected softly but firmly, taking a seat at the table. “Just continue to look casual.”

Hermione scanned the room, again checking for anything – and anyone – that looked out of place, but nothing struck her as being out of the ordinary. Most of the patrons were young people her age or a bit older, and her gaze lingered on a group that looked like they were getting ready to leave – she gestured to her parent to get ready. When the objects of her surveillance approached the door, the three of them stood and exited directly behind them. The group turned right and so did they, and half way down the block she realized they were being followed.

Hermione could just make out the two men from the reflections in the storefront windows on the opposite side of the street. While she didn’t say anything, she stiffened noticeably, and her father shot her glance. She jerked her head slightly backwards – it was all he needed to know that they were in trouble. He extended a protective arm around his wife on the one side, and his daughter on the other. Hermione reached into her jacket and pulled out Minerva’s wand, ready to whip around if it became necessary. They kept pace with the group from the pub – based on their conversation, they were heading to the nightclub at the end of the street. She could work with that.

At the entrance, the burly man standing security looked askance at her parents, but she explained that it was their anniversary and she wanted to take them dancing. The bouncer huffed and shook his head in amusement, but he let them in. It took a moment to adjust to the noise and the dark interior, but she saw the red Emergency Exit sign clearly enough at the back of the large room. There were two sets of steps and a busy dance floor between it and them, but there was no other option.

She determinedly took her father’s hand while he grabbed that of his wife, and they threaded their way through the crowd as quickly as they could. The door was alarmed to ring if opened and she spelled it into silence – they slipped quickly into the alley. She saw a flash of light go past her head the instant the door closed behind them. She shoved her parents down behind the club’s dumpster before flinging her hand around the corner of the skip and firing blindly. Hearing a man swear and knowing that she had made a hit, she stood to take advantage of the lull and started to fire off a variety of spells in rapid succession. The alley lit up in a rainbow of colors as Hermione dueled with one of their stalkers. Minerva’s wand performed well, although she didn’t know how long she would be able to hold out when – not if – his companion put in an appearance, probably through the door behind them.

Just as these thoughts ran through her mind, her father rose from his place, extended his arm, and fired his own weapon, hitting their attacker in the shoulder, causing him to drop his wand and fall to the ground. Hermione didn’t have time to express her surprise. Instead, she yanked her mother to her feet, pulled out the portkey, and they were off.

Her parents were rather worse for wear when they arrived at the apparition point near the school’s front gate – they were bent over and breathing deeply, clearly trying not to be ill, but they were also safe and alive, and that was all she cared about. When she turned around, it was to find Minerva and Severus, each carrying a lantern, patiently waiting for them. The headmistress hurried forward to greet her parents while Severus stood slightly apart – his face was neutral but she could tell that he was absolutely seething and knew she was in for a thorough bollocking in the very near future.

They didn’t hang around in the cold, dark, winter evening, and Severus led the way into the castle. Wanting them to have as normal an experience as they could after their escape, Minerva settled them in guest quarters just down from Hermione’s rooms. They would have to remain there unless escorted by one of the three of them. It wasn’t ideal, but they couldn’t be moved to a safe house until Shacklebolt got back and carried out a thorough investigation. Refreshments were waiting in their suite, but the Grangers were more interested in the large whiskies Minerva had also thought to provide.

After some fits and starts, they recounted their recent adventure, and as they did so, Severus’s scowl only deepened.

“Dad – I have to ask,” Hermione began. “When did you get the gun?”

Her father didn’t bat an eye. “The day after you and Severus left last summer,” he replied grimly. “I’m not magical, but I was _not_ going to be completely defenseless.” He shot a quick and not entirely benevolent glance in Severus’s direction before taking another hefty gulp of his drink - the man across from him might not have been directly responsible for Hermione's close call, but he was a part of the world that had put her life in danger, and not for the first time he now knew.

In retrospect, Severus realized that he hadn’t been that far off in his assessment months before, that he might be shot and his bones consigned to the desserts of Australia if he ever put a foot wrong with the man’s daughter – his respect for him suddenly spiked.

“It sounds like you have remarkably good aim,” Minerva observed, hoping to ease the tension.

“We protect our own, Professor McGonagall,” Jean replied firmly as she sat up straighter in her chair. Severus recognized the woman’s expression of sheer bloody minded determination – he had certainly seen it often enough on the face of her only child. They were a pair, her parents.

“I’m sorry to say this, but I really must relieve you of it now,” Minerva said, sticking out her hand expectantly.

“And I’m sorry, too, but I’m not giving it to _anyone_ ,” James said just as firmly. Severus smiled inwardly at the look of consternation on the headmistress’s face as she lowered her hand. Merlin, they were a _feisty_ family.

“You are quite _safe_ here,” Minerva assured them.

“Be that as it may, I’m not going to give it up – not willingly, at any rate. I know you can force it from me,” he said, fixing her with a steely stare, “but I’d rather you didn’t.”

Minerva scrunched up her arms and shoulders. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of forcing you, Mr. Granger. Just . . . just be _careful_ with it.”

Minerva showed them how to use the floo to communicate with them and then suggested that they be left alone to settle in since it was long past their bedtime by the Australian clock. After hugging her parents one more time, Hermione joined the headmistress in the corridor as Severus proceeded to ward the entrance, setting them to allow just the three of them to enter and leave. When he was done, they retreated to the end of the passage way.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that this _must_ be kept quiet – not a word of this can get out to _anyone_ ,” Minerva cautioned in a hushed voice. “It would put everyone in danger and hamper any investigation the Ministry undertakes. Hermione, you should keep to your rooms as well – use the floo to go back and forth from your parents’ quarters. I don’t want whoever took your wand trying their luck again tomorrow.”

“I have some thoughts on that,” Severus offered.

They looked at him expectantly.

He addressed himself to Minerva. “I’ll join you in your office momentarily. Right now,” he said, cutting off Hermione’s budding objection over being excluded, “I’ll see my apprentice to her rooms and then I’ll ward her quarters as well.”

Hermione barely managed a thank-you to Minerva before he grabbed her arm with controlled force and dragged her down the corridor. He cast a silencing spell the instant the door was closed behind them.

“What the _bloody hell_ did you think you were doing?!” he growled, barely able to restrain his anger.

“I was getting my parents out of harm’s way,” she threw right back.

“You should have waited for someone to go with you!” he continued to rage. “You were being _incredibly_ reckless!”

“There wasn’t anyone else – unless you think Percy _Wanker_ Weasley would have been of any use!”

“You should have waited for a proper auror,” he bit out.

“And I suppose _you_ would have waited for one if you had been in the same situation?” she challenged defiantly.

“Don’t be facetious,” he said dismissively.

“ _Excuse me_?” she asked, enraged at the double standard.

“It’s _not_ the same thing and you know it,” he angrily retorted. Hermione harrumphed in disagreement. He took her by the arm and leaned down close so they were practically touching. “You have no idea – _none_ _whatsoever_ – what kind of people we’re dealing with here,” he hissed. “They _eat_ the likes of you for _snacks_.”

She yanked her arm back. “I couldn’t wait,” she gritted between clenched teeth. She was scarcely able to keep herself from shaking, now that the enormity of it was truly starting to sink in, and she didn’t need telling off. “It was a closely timed thing as it was – even ten minutes later and they might have been killed – _or worse_ ,” she said with a slight tremor in her voice.

He could see that she was close to breaking down entirely, and he suddenly pulled her roughly into his arms, holding so tightly that she almost couldn’t breathe.

“What would I have done if you had been hurt?” he gasped out hoarsely, shaking her and burying his face in her wild hair.

“I . . . I didn’t want to lose them again,” she said through her tears. “I love them _so much_ – I _had_ to go!” she cried.

He loosened his grip sufficiently for him to touch his forehead to hers. “I know, I know,” he whispered after a moment. “It’s alright – they’re safe, now,” he soothed. He drew her over to the hearth, sat down in one of her ridiculously over-stuff chairs and pulled her on to his lap. She settled into him, the tears still falling. As her breathing evened out, she raised her head and looked at him – his face had softened and he caressed the side of her cheek.

“Do you know who took my wand?” she sniffled.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I might,” he said quietly.

“Who . . . .” He put his fingers to her mouth to silence her, but then slowly dragged them across her soft lips. Then he raised them to her brow before letting them glide lightly down the side of her face. His thumb skirted over her cheek until his hand was at the back of her neck, cradling her head, his fingers threading though her hair. Merlin, it had been _months_ since he had tasted her, and today . . . _today_ , he had almost lost her. _Again_.

He drew her slowly to him and felt her tiny inhalation as their lips finally met. He meant only to comfort her but soon found that his resolve had completely left him and he just couldn’t stop. He pressed hard against her mouth, simply devouring her. As they kissed, she undid the top buttons of his coat and untied the cravat, pulling the long, black material away from his collar. She then started in on the small buttons of his shirt.

Without warning, he picked her up and headed for the bedroom, kicking the door open without hesitation and landing them both on top of the counterpane. He pushed into her with all of his weight as she writhed beneath him. His hands were everywhere – in her hair and on her face, rubbing down her sides and then up again to her breasts, reaching behind and squeezing her buttocks as he ground into her pelvis.

She lifted her hips and wrapped her legs around him, all the while their mouths locked on to one another. He moved against her, trying to give her the friction she needed under her clothes. Moments later he felt her freeze briefly, grabbing his shoulders and calling out. He steadied himself, poised to finish the instant she started to thrash against her orgasm. And then it happened. He pushed as hard as he could, grinding against her pubic bone. An agonized groan escaped his lips as he came, his climax protracted and almost painfully intense because of a long abstinence over the months.

Breathing heavily, he pushed up on his elbows and looked into her face. Silent tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes and he gently wiped them away. She opened them and his heart melted.

“You were so brave, today,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “I was so _scared_ ,” she whispered, the tears continuing to pool in her eyes.

He brushed the hair away from her forehead. “Bravery isn’t about being unafraid,” he quietly informed her. “It’s having the courage to act in spite of those fears.” He sighed. “Merlin preserve those who haven’t got the good sense to be afraid.”

She raised herself up slightly, hugging him tightly. Reluctantly, he rolled away from her knowing that their unplanned interlude had more to do with simply surviving a harrowing experience than her making a decision about a long-term relationship.

He reached into his sleeve for his wand, casting a _Scourgify_ on himself and motioning to do the same for her, but she declined.

“I’m going to take a shower and go to bed, I think,” she explained.

“An entirely sensible course of action,” he replied. He stared at her for a moment before embarking on what he had to say. “You do realize that this” – he waved his hand between them – “doesn’t change our arrangement.” She closed her eyes against his statement. “I . . . _we_ . . . let ourselves get carried away by circumstance. It was understandable, but we still have weeks to go – you need to focus on your master’s work and keep thinking about your . . . your _options_.” When she didn’t respond, he pressed her. “Hermione – look at me.” Her lids opened and he was confronted with a distinct glare. “Yes, I think you understand well enough,” he smirked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and starting to do up his buttons – he didn’t need Minerva speculating about his disheveled appearance.

He could feel Hermione’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The bed moved, followed almost immediately by the bathroom door being slammed – she was decidedly pissed, but that was fine with him because it meant that she was alive and kicking. The thought sobered him at once – he needed to strategize with Minerva about what to do next.


	14. Moran Ledbetter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran Ledbetter reappears in a big way in Hermione and Severus's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcome! Next week's installment is titled Hermione.

**Moran Ledbetter**

Severus left the door to his quarters open as he settled in to grade at the desk in the potions classroom. He had gotten through three of the essays when the expected knock came.

“Enter,” he drawled, continuing to read as Violet Parkinson, a slightly shorter but no less voluptuous version of her older sister, made her way into the room. “Close the door,” he ordered without looking up. Violet hurried to do as he asked, retracing her steps. He watched surreptitiously through the hair hanging in front of his face as she turned and sashayed towards his desk. Her tie was askew and the top of her blouse was unbuttoned, revealing an impressive cleavage. Her skirt was rolled at the waist to raise it high on her thighs, while the silk knee socks completed the dirty school girl image she was clearly trying to evoke.

“You sent for me, professor? Something about my . . . my _progress_ in class?” she asked in a practiced sultry voice.

He raised his head and smirked. “Yes. But first . . . there seems to be some . . . _problems_ with your uniform, Miss Parkinson.”

“Perhaps you could help me put things right,” she replied invitingly.

He ran his eyes up and down her frame and wet his lips. “It’s my experience that you have to go back to the beginning with . . . with these kinds of problems, to see where you went wrong,” he observed smoothly, pushing his chair back, standing, and deftly stepping around the desk, toying with the quill in his hand. He circled her slowly, carefully taking her in. When they were once more face to face she was breathing heavily, her breasts struggling against her tight shirt. Her eyes smoldered with desire and were locked hungrily on his. He smiled lewdly as he ran the feathered tip of his quill down the side of her face, along her neck, and on to her heaving chest.

Violet visibly shivered before tugging on one end of her tie and pulling it apart, letting it drop to the floor, but he held up a hand when she reached for the buttons on her shirt.

“Unfortunately, Miss Parkinson, my . . . _apprentice_ ” – he spit out the word – “seems to have vanished, but like the busy-body know-it-all pain in the arse she _is_ and has _always_ been, she usually turns up at the most . . . _inconvenient_ moments. I would hate for us to be interrupted while in the middle of a student-teacher . . . _conference_ ,” he said, lowering his voice seductively.

“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be back anytime soon,” she cooed.

“What makes you say that?” he replied absently, focusing on the tip of the quill as he worked it inside her blouse.

“Would you be disappointed if she . . . if she _never_ came back?” she asked hesitantly.

“Hmmm?” he hummed, half-closing his lids as he stepped closer and lowered his hand, tickling the inside of her thigh with the quill. Violet gasped in near ecstasy.

“I . . . I asked if you’d be disappointed if your apprentice never returned,” she panted.

“Why would I be disappointed? The headmistress _forced_ her on me, against my better judgement,” he said distractedly. “If Granger has decided to chuck it all in, I’d be looking . . . for . . . _another_ . . . apprentice,” he said slowly, raising his eyes to hers. “I don’t suppose . . . _you_ would be interested?” he said, his hot breath grazing her cheek.

“Yes!” she replied eagerly, “I’d do anything you want, professor,” she whispered. “ _Anything_ ,” she repeated suggestively.

“But I’d have to be certain that she’s . . . that she’s _gone_ ,” he continued, staring at her lips, “before Minerva would agree to give the place to someone else.”

There was a pause in the conversation. Violet bit her lip in thought, seemingly torn about sharing something with him. He leaned in close to her ear and pointedly inhaled deeply to draw in her scent. The movement prompted her to speak.

“My father says that some of his surviving . . . _colleagues_ are going after her, along with Potter and Weasley,” she stammered, closing her eyes against the sensations he was evoking.

“Sadly, none of them will be capable enough to take them on,” he complained softly.

She smiled wickedly, her eyes still closed. “Moran is capable enough,” she observed, tilting her head back so that he could run his nose up her slender neck.  

“You know Ledbetter, do you?” he laughed darkly.

“Father does,” she murmured, swaying towards him.

“See each other often, do they?” he asked quietly, blowing in her ear.

“Recently, anyway,” she managed to reply.

“Indeed,” he said coolly and stepping back.

Violet’s lids fluttered open in confusion, staring at the now hard and unyielding visage of her professor. There was movement behind him as Minerva, Shacklebolt, and two aurors emerged from Severus’s quarters. Violet gasped.

“You . . . you . . . .” she spluttered as she struggled to find an explanation for what they had all just heard. “He . . . he tried to _seduce me_!” she finally proclaimed, pointing frantically at him with one hand while attempting to cover chest with the other. Severus grimaced in distaste.

“We heard _everything_ , Miss Parkinson – and recorded it for good measure,” Shacklebolt held up his wand. He stepped closer. “I will be taking your statement momentarily, but I would remind you – here and now – that you are seventeen, an adult in the wizarding world, and you need to think _very_ carefully about your priorities,” he cautioned, the unspoken threat of Azakaban now hanging in the air. The Minister nodded at the aurors, who took the tearfully distraught teenager out through the classroom door.

“Your instincts were spot on, Minerva,” Shacklebolt grimly observed, “she obviously has an amorous fixation on Severus.”

“Well, who _wouldn’t_?” she asked acerbically, causing her colleague to growl. 

“I still think _my_ way would have been better,” he sneered.

“Yes, pinning the girl’s head to a desk and forcing Veritaserum down her throat without obvious probable cause would have gone over _very_ well with the jury when her case got to court,” Minerva further noted.

“Well, at least doing it this way means she won’t require a potion in order to tell us the truth, which will save on the paper work. I almost feel sorry for her,” Shacklebolt sighed. “She was probably told that she was protecting you by stealing Hermione’s wand and passing it on, exchanging Granger’s life for yours,” he said to Severus.

“What’s going to happen now?” Minerva asked.

“Her actions aren’t going to go over very well with the Wizagamot, that’s for sure, and it’s certainly going to have an impact on her family. If they were involved – and it seems at least her father was deep into it – their probation will be rescinded. If Parkinson coughs up information on Ledbetter’s whereabouts, it might – but _only_ might – keep them out of Azkaban. I’ll be in touch,” he said glumly, nodding to both of them before heading off to the Ministry.

“How on earth did you know about her . . . her . . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say so ridiculous a word out loud.

“Her _crush_?” Minerva supplied. “Oh _Severus_ . . . for a man who may well be the greatest spy who ever lived, sometimes you can be quite _obtuse_ about things that are _right_ under that nose of yours. She’s been trying to get your attention since the beginning of the school year,” she said exasperatedly, before following Shacklebolt’s example and leaving him standing in the middle of the room to think on exactly what his interactions with her _had_ been like. He had given her seven detentions in the fall for various things, like dropping utensils, spilling ingredients, and otherwise ruining potions, which in retrospect did indeed seem overly clumsy for anyone outside the Longbottom gene pool. Ultimately, he had suspected her because of her _family_ affiliations, but it obviously had run much deeper than that.

In the aftermath, he wasn’t so foolish as to think that Violet might be the only returning Slytherin whose family was nursing a grudge against him, and he sat down that afternoon with Minerva to go over his house membership. None of the names stuck out to either of them. In fact, while his house was now the smallest out of the four, he proudly pointed out to the headmistress that more than three-quarters of his returning sixth and seventh year students had stayed to fight _for_ the school after they made it out of the dungeons, where they had been ignominiously consigned after she had driven him from the school. Minerva expressed her contrition for having lumped everyone in his house together, although some of them had certainly been a threat she was quick to note.

He was interested to see that when Hermione was informed of what had happened she was more outraged at the notion that Violet had been interested in _him_ than she was about the fact that the young woman had considered _her_ expendable in that quest. And while he was satisfied that no more threats lay in _that_ direction, he nevertheless reminded her in his usual imperious way that she was _not_ to leave school grounds. Previously, she had been tempted to argue against the notion that she was somehow incapable of defending herself, and while her point had been more than adequately proved in that regard, she wasn’t going to go looking for trouble after two very close calls already, and she readily acquiesced to his demand.

Now that the Minister for Magic was back at the helm, the Grangers were relocated to a safe house until Ledbetter and his crew were found – Hermione could floo her parents, but even she didn’t know their location. Secure in the knowledge that her parents were safe, she resumed work on her master’s project, meeting with Duggins every morning after breakfast, since the headmistress had extended the castle’s hospitality to him until Ledbetter and his followers were taken down. Severus returned to the classroom, meeting with Shacklebolt only occasionally, now, and usually in his quarters. His sadistic tendencies regarding her more personalized instruction recommenced as well, much to Duggins’s amusement.

Several weeks after her frantic trip to Australia, Hermione was at the point of beginning human trials on the potion she was trying to create – she only had one more adjustment to make and then she would be ready. At breakfast, she told Severus that he was not to interrupt her since she was at a delicate point. He was about to object when Duggins weighed in and diffused the situation – only his mentor was able to deter his further complaints. She worked steadily all morning and was very near to adding the last ingredient – twelve stamens from a moon lily – but dividing them up on the cutting board into the required three groups of four she realized that Severus was short by two stamens. Frustrated, since adding them was time sensitive, she grabbed a vial and a pair of tweezers and ran full out for Sprout’s greenhouses. The herbology professor wasn’t there – it was nearing the lunch hour after all – and she proceeded to Greenhouse Number Four to get what she needed. She was poised to pluck the necessary stamens when she heard a noise behind her – just as she turned to check what it was, she was blindsided by a blow to the left side of her face. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was the leering face of Moran Ledbetter.

When Hermine didn’t show up for lunch, Severus didn’t think too much about it, given their conversation at breakfast – it wasn’t unusual for her to skip lunch if she was in the middle of something – but when he returned to the dungeons and peeked in the lab, she wasn’t there. He became truly alarmed when he saw the abandoned moon lily stamens, spoiled, now, because of their long exposure to the air. He called her name as he searched his quarters – he even stepped into the potions classroom itself. When he didn’t find her, he went back to the lab, looking over what she had been working on – there were three groups of stamens set out but one was short by two. He quickly surmised that when she realized this she went up to the potions garden to collect the difference – indeed, the knife she had been using to dice them was set neatly to one side. But that had been at least two hours before, given the state of the stamens.

Pure terror gripped him as he sprinted through the halls – students quickly parted before. When he got to Greenhouse Four, the door was standing open, banging slightly against the frame in the wind. Once inside, he immediately took in the flattened lilies as well as two deep furrows in the dirt with footprints on either side running from there to the door. Following the tracks outside, he noted that the furrows ended mere steps away, while the set of large footprints suddenly became deeper as they trailed off and then just simply disappeared past the apparition wards – she clearly had been knocked to the ground, dragged outside, and then picked up and carried before her kidnapper had disapparated. She had been _taken_ , and he knew in the very pit of his stomach exactly who had done it.

Severus didn’t linger, but rather swiftly headed back to the castles via the greenhouses, all the while trying to stifle the rising panic. As he tried to calm himself, an owl hooted from above, and he watched as it landed on one of the outside potting tables and stuck out its leg. He approached it, untying the parchment and unfurling the message.

“ _I have your witch. You know where she is. Come quickly and alone – she is too tempting for me to wait for very long. ML._ ”

Severus crumpled the parchment and slowly looked up, the fierce expression on his face startling the owl, which hooted in response and flew away.

His time was indeed limited – Moran had always lacked patience and subtlety – and this was a two-person job. He would have to hurry if he was going to dragoon into service the one individual he knew he could trust to do the job.

Severus knelt down the instant he apparated to the field near Thwaite Grange an hour after Ledbetter’s threatening missive. He looked around and got his bearings – it was familiar to him from nearly ten months before, but he had only seen it through Hermione’s eyes. As his sight adjusted to the darkening day, he detected a lone figure in the near distance standing in front of the stone wall separating the fields. Although he couldn’t make out their face, he knew the shape and form intimately – it was Hermione. He quickly put up a shield to protect himself and cautiously narrowed the distance between them. As he got closer, it was obvious from the way her arms were pulled back that her hands were tied behind her, and it looked like she had been standing there quite a while, given that she was soaking wet and visibly shivering in the cold drizzle. He could just discern a burgeoning bruise on the left side of her face and a split lip in the dim light, but apart from that, she seemed unharmed. She looked at him fearfully, and gestured ever so slightly with her head to the fence behind her. He nodded almost imperceptibly, but she caught it.

A figure slowly loomed up from the other side of the wall.

“That’s close enough, _Severus_ ,” Moran mocked. “Drop your shield.”

Severus at once complied.

“I’ll take you wand, if you don’t mind. I’ll take it even if you _do_ mind,” Moran laughed, amused at his own wit. He pointed his wand at Hermione as Severus reached within his robes. “Careful, _now_ – we don’t want an _accident_ ,” he warned. Severus pulled out a wand and held it upright with two fingers – it instantly flew from his hand to Ledbetter. “I’ll take your back up as well, the one you keep in your boot,” the enforcer sneered. Severus leaned over and dragged up his trouser leg, pulling out a second instrument, which promptly flew out of his hand. Now seemingly disarmed, Ledbetter pointed his wand at his former colleague. “ _Crucio!_ ”

Hermione screamed as Severus fell to the ground and convulsed in pain. It lasted only a few moments, and as he lay gulping in air, she could hear Moran making his way through the hole he had blasted there only months before when he had chased her drunkenly through the field.   

“That is only a taste of the punishment that awaits the _traitor_ who betrayed the Dark Lord,” he hissed. “ _Crucio!_ ”

Severus writhed on the wet and muddy ground as Moran positioned himself directly behind Hermione, hissing in her ear. “How does it feel, _Mudblood_? To know that he came here to _rescue_ you, that _you_ are responsible for this?” he laughed maniacally.

“Stop it! Please, stop it, I’ll do whatever you want, just stop it!” she cried, as she made to step towards the figure rolling on the ground.

Moran grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back. “You’ll do whatever I want _regardless_ ,” he jeered, his erection pressed into her backside. He ceased the spell, although Severus continued to spasm uncontrollably.

“Get up!” Moran bellowed at the former Death Eater.

Shaking and panting, Severus rolled over onto his hands and knees, struggling to get to his feet.

“Did you _really_ think you would get away with it? That there wouldn’t be repercussions?” Ledbetter snarled. “I’m going to _enjoy_ this, seeing you squirm as I _fuck_ your _Mudblood_ right in front of you,” he bragged as he deliberately jerked Hermione to the side and quickly pressed his lips hard into hers. Severus lurched towards them but Ledbetter speedily raised his wand once more. “And once I’ve thoroughly fucked her then she’s going to watch me _kill_ you. I think I’ll keep her around for a while after that, chain her up in the cellar, remind her every day in a way that only a man can” – Moran brazenly swiveled his hips against her backside – “how you died like a _worm_ , squirming in the _dirt_. I will do such things to her that she will _beg_ me to kill her, knowing that you _won’t_ be coming to save her.”

Hermione’s legs finally gave out, from both the physical and emotional strain, and Moran let her drop to the ground.

“But first,” he continued, still aiming his wand at Severus, “we’re going to have some fun. _Crucio!_ ”

Severus stiffened and fell once more to the ground, thrashing in agony. Moran stepped away from Hermione and made his way over to where he lay. When Ledbetter released him, Severus clutched his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. 

“Does it feel like old times, _Severus?_ ” the renegade taunted. “Even back then, the Dark Lord must have sensed your _unworthiness_ , your _disloyalty_ – you were, after all, his favorite punching bag – and now I’m here to _avenge_ him.”

Although still gasping for air, Severus stared up at Ledbetter and his lips twitched, forming a crooked and entirely superior smile – he slowly turned to look at Hermione and confidently met her fearful eyes. As Moran followed Severus’s gaze, Hermione felt someone pounce on her and they portkeyed away. The echo of her screamed “No!” reverberated in the evening air.

Hermione landed with a thud – still half lying on the ground – just outside the gates of Hogwarts. She struggled against her bonds as Harry lifted himself off of her and threw back the invisibility cloak. He swiftly waved his wand – once her hands were free, she grabbed his shirt.

“We can’t leave him there!” she cried, “we have to go back! Moran will kill him!”

“It’s alright, it’s ok,” he kept repeating as she tried to get to her feet. “Hermione!” he finally shouted, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her to get her attention. He looked deep into her eyes. “Snape _knows_ what he’s doing. _Trust him_.” She continued to cling to him and sniffle, although her struggling ceased and she relaxed her grip. Harry got her to her feet, but she refused to go any further than just inside the school gates. He took off his jacket, wrapped it around her shoulders, and held her close to warm her – they would wait for him together.

Ledbetter just stood there for a moment, in shock at what had just happened, and when he turned he found himself staring down the business end of Severus’s wand, which had been tucked into his sleeve.

“You didn’t _seriously_ think that I would give you _my_ wands, did you?” Severus sneered malevolently. “ _Stupify!_ ”

The enforcer stumbled backwards from the spell that hit him point blank in the chest. Although in pain, Severus managed to get his knees. He pulled out a small vial from his pocket as Ledbetter watched, helpless from the binding spell.

“Before we . . . _finish_ . . . here tonight, you are going to tell me about your _friends_ and where we can find them,” he said coldly - he unstoppered the bottle, leaned forward and forced the liquid into Ledbetter’s mouth.

Both Hermione and Harry jumped at the sound of apparition – they had been waiting only ten minutes but each one had been agony. Severus staggered a bit but quickly regained his footing and braced himself for the onslaught he saw coming at him. Hermione flung her arms around his neck and he pulled her tightly to his chest.

“I thought he was going to kill you,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” she kept repeating. “I didn’t hear him behind me.”

He soothed her as best he could, shushing her and rubbing his hand up and down her back. Over her shoulder, he saw Harry’s concerned face and stiffened slightly. Hermione suddenly relinquished her grip.  

“Are you alright?” she asked tremulously, as she ran shaky hands across his wet, mud-caked coat, trying to feel for any injuries.

“I’ll live,” he replied acerbically, trying to keep from showing the residual pain in his limbs and joints.

“The aurors will want a report,” Harry noted grimly as Hermione carried out her examination.

“Boddington’s Cross – a hamlet near Dartmoor. You’ll find the rest of his followers there, waiting for him to return,” Severus informed, trying to keep his voice steady.

“And Moran?” Harry asked softly. Severus stared intently at his former student as Hermione stilled her hands, listening expectantly, her eyes fixed on a button on his coat.

“He won’t be found,” he finally responded, his voice strangled. Hermione touched her forehead to his chest as Severus exchanged a knowing look with the young man. As Harry started to head for the apparition point, he was stayed by a pale hand extended in his direction. The auror-in-training looked up and saw gratitude reflected in his former professor’s face.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Severus said quietly and meaningfully.

Harry swallowed hard and slowly took his professor’s hand. “Don’t you think it’s about time we dropped the formalities?” he asked, staring at him fixedly.

Severus nodded slightly. “Thank you . . . _Harry_ ,” he corrected himself softly.

After Harry apparated to the Ministry, to set up a raid to mop up Ledbetter’s gang, Hermione helped Severus navigate his way – step by excruciating step – to the dungeons. He stumbled a few times, and stopped occasionally when his muscles spasmed from the aftereffects of the _Cruciatus_ , but they were soon in the safety of his quarters. Once in the bedroom Hermione immediately started in on his buttons. He tried to help, but his fingers kept cramping. She undid his shirt after having pulled off his cravat. Wincing as she helped him slip out of his coat and shirt, he toed off his boots and she drew off his trousers. She pulled down the duvet, casting a warming charm over the sheets as he eased painfully between them, sighing audibly when his head hit the pillow.

But his muscles were still twitching and his face was screwed up in pain. She knew instinctively what he needed – a calming draught, a sleeping draught, and a strong pain potion. Hurrying to the lab, she quickly located the required vials and then returned to his side. She got them open and he quickly downed them. Within minutes, his muscles started to relax and his expression eased as he fell asleep. She brushed the hair away from his face and continued to rub his cheek, finally allowing the tears to fall. This was the second time in less than a year that she had watched him lie in a bed, his body wracked by pain.

She stood and took off her wet and dirty clothes, changing into one of his night shirts, which hung almost to her ankles. He wouldn’t approve of her staying, but she slipped in beside him anyway and stretched her arm protectively across his chest. She drew up a leg as well and held on to him tightly. Sleep eluded her, sensitive as she was to his every movement. In the wee hours of the morning, she dosed him again – only afterwards did she manage to drift off.

She woke first and was careful not to disturb him, rather she simply held him, breathing him in until she felt him stir. His eyes finally flickered open and she was relieved to see that they were no longer filled with pain – she gifted him with a light kiss and then gently brushed the hair from his brow. He reciprocated, following with his eyes the trail his fingers made as they feathered down her cheek and neck, along her collar bone, and to her breast. The familiarity of it under his palm, the way it cushioned against her chest, filled him with a deep emotional and physical hunger. Looking into her face, he read the same response to his touch. She leaned in and kissed him lightly as his hands slipped down to the hem of the nightshirt and together they pulled it up and over her. He resumed their kiss, and as it deepened, her hand traveled down his chest to the wiry hairs of his groin – he was already erect and she caressed him familiarly. Shifting so that she lay atop him, she raised her hips, letting him slip along her slit, readying him to enter her. His breathing quickened as she slowly settled down on him – her heart sped up as she stretched to take him in.

Her hips began to undulate leisurely, sensuously, and oh so _deliberately_. He cupped her breasts as his eyes continued upwards, and the look they exchanged was infinitely more personal, more _intimate_ than anything they were doing physically. The distance between them closed as she leaned down to kiss him, her lips reflexively parting to let him in. As their passion built, he gently rolled them over and entered her once more, thrusting with intent. Her response ramped up and he reached down to help speed her on. He was near the edge himself, and the instant she called out his name, the moment she began to thrash, he came forcefully, blindingly, his climax seemingly going on endlessly. When he gradually came back to himself, he lay limply in her fierce embrace – she was hanging on to him as if to keep him from falling from some great height, or slipping away like an intangible breeze. But he _had_ fallen, so _completely_ fallen . . . for _her_ , and _she_ was the breeze, the wind that had cleared his mind, his heart, and dusted away the cobwebs from his soul. Here and now, she belonged solely to _him_ , and he to her. Whatever the future, _this moment_ could never be taken away from him and he was content.

They showered together, scrubbing each other clean, saying nothing save by way of their eyes and touch. He tickled her beneath her ribs, and she reciprocated under his arms. When they emerged, dry and fully clothed, breakfast was waiting, courtesy of Duggins’s instructions to Severus’s house elf, who had been discreetly monitoring their morning progress. 

Neither said anything about the events of the previous evening, or even of that morning, rather they chatted about quite mundane matters, both reveling in things having returned to normal She had work to do in the lab, and when she was done eating, she gave him a quick peck on the check. He had classes to teach, but they met up again at lunch. More classes and then a staff meeting late in the day meant that they didn’t see each other again until dinner. He chatted amiably enough with her and Duggins, expressing his gratitude that the pair of them had kept his students on schedule with their studies. When the meal was finished, Hermione excused herself, saying she had some work to do, and he and his mentor returned to his quarters for an after dinner drink. They talked not of the ordeals they had recently been through but reminisced about his time as Duggins’ apprentice. He also spoke generally about finding a research project to work on alongside his teaching. He had progressed steadily in the fall writing up the paper on his nerve regeneration potion and submitted it at Christmas to the editors of _Potioneer’s Monthly_. The taste of academic inquiry had rekindled his youthful appetite for experimenting, and as he talked on, he noted the smile on his mentor’s face – it was warm, proud, and more than a little self-satisfied he was intrigued to see. He didn’t ask what lay behind it, rather he simply let the conversation flow, as it had used to do with his old friend.

By nine o’clock Duggins had left and he was on his own, sitting in front of the fire in his usual chair with an open book in his hand, though he wasn’t really looking at it. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that he was completely on his own, and it felt . . . _unbearable_ , he had to admit. He had lived for years virtually in solitary confinement, but he now found himself very poor company. A few minutes past the hour and the fire in the grate suddenly leapt up, and to his utter surprise Hermione stepped out of the flames, dressed in a robe, her hair wet and smelling as though she had just got out of the shower, which was clearly the case. She smiled at him as she stepped around the coffee table and proceeded to make herself comfortable on his couch, pulling up her stocking feet and grabbing the throw on the back of the sofa to pull over her legs. Smiling at him again, she opened the volume she had brought with her and started to read.

He had no idea what to make of her arrival, but he was damned if he was going to break the spell by asking her what was going on. It took him a while to regain his equilibrium, but he finally returned to his book and settled in to read. They sat like that – quiet and comfortable with each other in the silence – until the clock over the mantle chimed eleven. At that, Hermione closed her book, yawned, and stretched her arms upward.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m completely knackered – I’m going to bed.” He tried not to focus on the sudden emptiness her announcement instilled in him, knowing that she would be leaving, rather he closed his text and got up, stretching his own limbs as his back cracked – he was still plenty sore in spite of the potions. But then, she did something wholly unexpected. She folded the blanket neatly and replaced it on the back of the sofa before turning and heading into the bedroom. He moved away from his chair and looked across the expanse of his study through the open door as Hermione took off her robe and socks and climbed into his bed. When she raised her eyes, she quirked her head to one side.

“Are you coming or do you want to stay up a bit longer?”

He knew, intellectually, that he should remind her that the events of that morning didn’t really alter their arrangement, which still had many weeks to run, but he was tired of self-sacrifice, sick unto _death_ of it, in fact, and he wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to spend any and every moment he could with her, not after everything that had happened. They would still need to have a conversation at the end of the school year about their future, but she was making it abundantly clear that she was where she wanted to be, at least for now.

So he answered her question by putting out the fire and heading into the bedroom. He laid his book on the night table and slowly started to undress. She was on her side, her elbow propping up her head. “My favorite bit,” she said sleepily. “Well, almost,” she corrected. He arched a brow. “ _I_ like to be the one undoing all those buttons,” she said quite unselfconsciously.

“Me, too,” he replied softly. Her lids were drooping by the time he got down to his trousers, and he went off to bathroom to perform his nighty ablutions. When he returned, Hermione had rolled over to her other side, her arms tucked over her chest and breathing deeply. He put out the light and slipped in behind her, snuggling in close and wrapping a protective arm around her middle – she sighed contentedly in her sleep. Merlin he had missed this, and he realized as he drifted off that he’d be willing to sacrifice absolutely fucking _anything_ to have her permanently in his life.


	15. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Hermione's examinations finally arrives and there are shocks and surprises all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think. Next week's title is Severus.

**Hermione**

A couple of weeks after his conversation with Duggins, he got word that his article would be appearing in the next issue of _Potioneer’s Monthly_. His mentor had beamed paternally at the news but he most appreciated the kisses Hermione bestowed on him – in private, of course – in her excitement on his behalf. Certainly it made returning to his teaching more tolerable, especially since Hermione had reached the human trials phase of her research and now spent several days each week at St. Mungo’s, usually with Duggins in tow. Teaching dunderheads who might blow him up if he wasn’t supremely attentive at least kept him from missing her too much.   

From her demeanor at the end of each day, he knew that things with her master project were going well. He was genuinely pleased for her, but it was inevitably tinged with disappointment – and resentment he was forced to admit – that he wasn’t involved, that Duggins was the one principally sharing in her excitement. Her enthusiasm was curbed a bit as time went on by a handful of what she said were relatively minor glitches but most especially by sheer exhaustion, and he assumed the responsibility for making sure she ate properly and went to bed at a decent hour. She continued to occupy his bed, and while she was often too tired to do anything at night except promptly fall asleep – and was usually gone before he woke up – he was happy enough just to hold her as she slept. He managed to keep his foreboding at bay as the end of the school year rapidly approached, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Not even the publication of his article – which was very well received – could stem his growing apprehension. 

The date for her examination had been set – maddeningly enough – a mere week before Hogwarts dismissed for the summer break. So in addition to being up to his neck with exams and end of term duties, he had to deal with an increasingly frantic apprentice, who seemed on the verge of unraveling as she doubled down on her work. No amount of assurances – from him or Duggins – that she didn’t actually have to have the article on her project submitted prior to her examination had any effect.

On the day itself she hardly touched her breakfast out of concern about what she might later be presented with in the practical exams. Though he wouldn’t admit it, some of her nervousness was starting to rub off on him, and he, too, was off his food – only Duggins ate with his usual relish. They didn’t have to be in London until 11:00, and she alternated between pacing in front of the fire in his study and rummaging through the massive folder she intended to take with her. Equally irritating was the fact that Duggins, sitting comfortably in his favorite reading chair, seemed entirely unaffected by it all. By the time they left his quarters he was in a right state, though unlike Hermione unable to show it except by his increasingly bad temper.

Minerva insisted on walking them down to the school gates, where she stopped and waved him and Duggins on to the apparition point so she could give the star of her house one last word of encouragement. Severus rolled his eyes, but did so mainly out of habit. Intellectually, he knew – was absolutely _certain_ , in fact – that she would pass, and likely do so with distinction, but it was also the case that he had never been one to rely on certainties, and with good reason, so it all set him further on edge.

“Examiners wait for _no one_ , Miss Granger,” he barked sharply to hurry her on. After a quick goodbye, Hermione joined him, and with her on one arm and Duggins on the other, he apparated them to the medieval edifice of the Ancient and Honorable Guild of Potioneers.

They went straight to the main lab where she was slated to take the practical examination. The clerk of the guild greeted her at the door, and after an anxious look over her shoulder, she disappeared behind it.

“Would you like me to take you to the refectory to wait?” Severus asked Duggins.

“No, no I’ll wait here with you,” he replied, knowing full well that his former apprentice wouldn’t be going anywhere until she was done.

“It’s likely to be a couple of hours,” Severus informed him tightly.

Duggins gave him a warm, nostalgic smile. “As I _well_ remember.” Without thinking, Severus took him by the elbow and ushered him to the cold stone bench that was directly below a stained glass window depicting some of guild’s more famous potioneers.  

They sat motionless and in silence – for almost two hours. Duggins soon closed his eyes to meditate, relaxed but still alert to any announcement that she had finished. Severus simply stared straight ahead, his eyes boring into the door as if by doing so he could see beyond it. His concentration was broken only by other members passing by – none, though, were so foolish as to ignore his _do-not-disturb_ glare.

As they sat there and waited he couldn’t help but recall his own nearly disastrous examination some two decades before. He had breezed through the practical, and for most of his oral he managed to keep his temper – and tongue – in check at the inane questions that were put to him by the leading examiner. But he finally snapped at the unctuousness of the leading wizard who quite unsurprisingly resented the sneering tone of one of his answers. It was a verbal fist-fight from there on and a very uneven one at that because he was infinitely more skilled, more practiced, and more _bullish_ than virtually anyone else, even in those early years. Fortunately, the other two examiners, as well as the handful of masters who had turned up to see his defense, thought the head of the committee was being deliberate belligerent because Severus’s work encroached on – and was more insightful than – his own. Hermione was a know-it-all for sure, and in his experience had never hesitated to question or correct someone, but he wondered if she could face down that kind of bullying, especially if it came from a master who was, in theory, supposed to know more than her.

Before he could ruminate further, the door opened, and a rather bedraggled Hermione emerged – tendrils of hair had escaped her braid and were frizzing around her flushed face but her satisfied smile significantly eased his concerns, at least for the moment.   

“Well, _that’s_ done,” she said, exhaling noisily as her teachers rose to greet her.

Sensing Severus’s reticence to ask how she did, Duggins posed the question instead.

“Alright, I think,” she responded, biting her lip. “I’m pretty sure I got all of the identifications. They left some of the containers out so I could brew, so I know I tagged at least _those_ correctly.”

“What potions did they have you do?” Duggins asked as they made their way to the lunch room.

“A burn paste, a sober-up potion, and a strengthening solution using the ingredients they had set out for me to identify. Then they had me whip up a contraceptive, a pepper-up potion, and finally a sleeping draught at two different strengths, for children and older people.”

Severus snorted derisively.

“They may be pedestrian, Severus,” Duggins commented, “but they _are_ the most commonly asked for items, and with the last two, it’s easy to get them wrong, with potentially disastrous consequences.”

“They also asked me questions about other things,” Hermione continued unprompted, “like how I could use spells to alter certain potions, when substitutes for rare ingredients can be used, where to _find_ some of those rare ingredients and how to harvest, prepare, and store them . . . .”

“It sounds appropriately comprehensive,” Duggins observed. “And it certainly won’t have been easy brewing several potions simultaneously and from memory,” he added

“It certainly felt thorough, that’s for sure,” she replied tiredly, sitting down to soup, bread, and tea. As they all tucked in, she paused, stirring her bowl. “I haven’t thanked you – _either_ of you – for everything you’ve done for me. Whatever the results, I . . . I want you to know how much I’ve learned from you.”

Severus, who was rarely thanked for anything, mumbled something unintelligibly dismissive, but Duggins reached across for her hand, which she immediately extended. “ _I_ am the one who is thankful, Miss Granger. You have brightened my old age in ways that I will simply _never_ be able to repay.” He squeezed her fingers and smiled warmly. Duggins was a generous individual to be sure, but even Severus thought he was laying it on a bit thick and ignored them, toying with a bit of mush that might have once been lasagna – he never understood why the cafeteria of a _potioneer’s_ guild, for fuck’s sake, _always_ had the worst food in the city.

The table fell quiet, and neither wizard wanted to interrupt Hermione’s thoughts as she prepared herself mentally for the oral examination, which would be more nerve-wracking than the morning activities. When she had finished her tea – like Severus, most of her lunch was uneaten – he suggested they head for the examination room. As they neared the appointed place, she nervously excused herself and went off to find the facilities while Severus went to the door of the chamber and looked at the placard next to it. Under Hermione’s name were the three potion masters who would be conducting the proceedings. Severus scowled as he read them – _fucking fuckity fuck_. He returned to Duggins’s side, practically snorting fire.

When he said nothing, the old wizard questioned him. “What’s wrong, Severus?”

“One of the examiners is that know-nothing bastard, Runcible Lear,” he spat, “and we _both_ know that he’s not above taking out his animosity for _me_ on _her_.”

Duggins smiled knowingly. “Regret eviscerating his article in your letter to the editors of _Potioneer’s Monthly_?”

“That was _five_ years ago and I stand by it, every _bloody_ word. Had I not pointed out his mistake with the heliotrope, his cancer potion would have _created_ more tumors than it would have _healed_. His work was _sloppy_ at best, _criminal_ at worst, and he should have been thrown out of the guild on his arse.”

“So you said in your letter,” Duggins calmly noted.

“If he starts in on her . . . .” Severus began, threateningly.

“ _Leave_ it, my boy – it will only make things worse. You don’t want anyone thinking that she’s not up to being challenged or that she’s gotten this far only because of her war status.” Severus merely harrumphed in response, quickly running through all the ways he could make Lear’s demise look natural, or in a pinch, like an accident – in his opinion, the man was poor enough of a potioneer that if he took one of the concoctions he brewed he might very well drop down dead of his own accord.

Sensing the direction his thoughts, Duggins broke in. “Do you think I’ve been lax in my instruction?”

“Of course not, but . . . .”

“Have _you_ lowered your standards in _any_ way regarding Miss Granger’s apprenticeship?”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” he replied indignantly

“Well, then,” Duggins smiled confidently, “let her demonstrate exactly _why_ she is _rightly_ considered to be the brightest witch of her age.”

While that would have been enough to ease most people’s minds, his own examination – as well as his long experience with the world since – had taught him that what should be obvious was often willfully ignored, frequently for personal reasons. Lear was a nasty, unpleasant man as well as an incompetent brewer and if he so much as looked cross-eyed at Hermione, an old letter to an editor years before would be the _least_ of his concerns. He maintained a calm exterior, but inside, he continued to seethe.  

By the time she returned, Hermione was alarmed to see that a sizable crowd was forming, all waiting to be admitted. Examinations such as these were public affairs, and it looked like there was going to be a respectable turnout for her defense, which only made her more anxious as speculative glances were thrown her way. Most of the group appeared to be masters of the guild, but one of them had a camera around his neck, singling him out as a reporter for _The Prophet_. When the young man approached Severus actually growled, which was sufficient to send him scurrying back to the others who were waiting to go in.

The sound of the iron bolt being pulled back got everyone’s attention. As the door slowly creaked opened, people quietly filed in. From her vantage point, she could just see how the chamber was set up. The room was usually used for demonstrations and in respect of that it was horseshoe-shaped, with a long table at the front of the room facing four curved rows of tiered seating. Three chairs were positioned on one side of the table for the examiners while a lectern was situated on the other side a short distance away, with a bench to one side of that for her supervisor, or in this case, supervisor _s_.    

The clerk of the guild appeared at the door and motioned for them to enter – she went directly to the lectern while Severus and Duggins stood behind her and to the left, waiting for the proceedings to begin. When the examiners, all decked out in their formal robes, entered the chamber, she could hear those behind her rise to their feet. A witch and two wizards took their places with all solemnity, laying their folders on the table in front of them. With a nod from the center figure, everyone sat down again while she remained standing. In the distance, a bell tolled, and as it did, the chief examiner sitting in the middle began to speak.

“Miss Granger, my name is Master Runcible Lear and I will be leading this examination today, along with my colleagues Masters Portia Justicia,” he gestured to his right, “and Martin Warbles,” nodding to his left. “We are all here to see if you qualify for admittance to the Ancient and Honorable Company of Potioneers. But before we get started, there is another issue before us, the disposition of which may actually _preclude_ these proceedings.”

Trepidation coursed through her as he opened the folder and pulled out a piece of paper. She glanced to her left – Severus sat ram-rod straight, his hands firmly placed on his splayed knees and looking as though he was ready to vault the table and throttle Lear with his bare hands. Duggins, however, appeared as unflappable as ever.

“An incident has come to our attention that we would like you address, Miss Granger. Late in the evening of Saturday January 14th,” he began, looking at the paper in front of him, “a healer at St. Mungo’s alleges that you prepared a potion for Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, a potion – the _Sun’s Beam_ – that only accredited potioneers are permitted to brew. Is that correct?” Lear looked at her over his half-moon glasses.

Her throat was suddenly dry, but before she could even begin to formulate an answer, she heard the resonant voice of her professor, who had immediately leapt to his feet.

“May I ask who has proffered this charge?” he demanded.

“The healer responsible for Mrs. Malfoy’s case,” Lear replied.

“And that would be . . . . ?”

“These kinds of accusations are kept confidential – for the accuser’s protection,” he replied pointedly.

“Given the potential ramifications of this charge – the accreditation and very _future_ career of this apprentice – I _demand_ that the name of the healer be revealed and read into the record.” There were murmurs of approval behind him.

“I regret that this committee will _not_ be able to oblige you, Master Snape,” Lear answered tartly.

“All I need to do is send my _Patronus_ to Lucius Malfoy, and I _will_ have the name of the healer,” Severus coolly threatened.

“Then that is what you must do, Master Snape. But I _caution_ you that it would be _very_ unwise to vent your . . . _disapproval_ ,” he sneered, “against this healer, who is only acting for the best of reasons.”

Severus snorted contemptuously.  

“We can _not_ have apprentices – especially those engaged in a field such as ours, where knowledge, experience, and precision can mean life or death to those taking the potions we make – acting without appropriate supervision.”

“Ahem.” Every eye was immediately drawn to the dapper wizard who had gotten to his feet and was now standing to face the examiners.

“Master Duggins – you have something to say?” Lear asked.

“I am sorry to contradict you, Master Lear, but Miss Granger _was_ under supervision when she prepared the potion in question,” he provided informationally. There was further rustling behind them.

“Master Duggins, it is my understanding that you were not _with_ Miss Granger on the evening in question.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t under supervision. She prepared the potion in the lab at Hogwarts under my direction, save for the last ingredient, Winter’s Master, which as we all know has to be added immediately prior to the potion being administered. Winter’s Master was difficult to obtain, and since time was of the essence – given Mrs. Malfoy’s condition – Miss Granger took it straight to St. Mungo’s after it was acquired and finished the potion there. She was fully tutored in how to do that – she was, in point of fact, following my _specific_ instructions, which deviate slightly from the published recipe.”

“That doesn’t change _anything_ , Master Duggins – you weren’t _there_ so you can’t possibly know if Miss Granger actually _followed_ your directions.”

“But there _is_ someone who _can_ make that determination,” he replied, “and I believe he is waiting to be called in to testify.”

Lear looked confused – as did his colleagues – but he nodded to the clerk at the end of the table, who went to the door and opened it. He stepped back to allow the witness to enter.

Severus smirked at the shocked expression on everyone’s face – on everyone’s face _except_ Duggins’.

Lucius entered with his usual practiced insouciance. He smirked at Hermione, who simply stared at him, open mouthed, like everyone else. Standing next to Severus, he began to pull off his gloves – finger by finger – while looking around with some distaste. “Is someone going to offer refreshments?” When no one responded, he leaned towards Severus. “I was promised whiskey,” he informed him, glancing briefly in Duggins’s direction. 

“The drinks come after,” Severus whispered loudly back. 

“Pity,” Lucius replied.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Lear interrupted, having found his voice once more. “Can you tell us what happened on the night of January 14th, specifically in reference to Miss Granger preparing the potion that was given to Mrs. Malfoy? Start with where you got the last ingredient,” Lear ordered peremptorily.

Lucius looked down his aristocratic nose at the man. “If not for Miss Granger, my wife would _not_ be alive today, and so for her sake, I will _overlook_ your incivility.”

Lear shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his – and Severus’s – hostile gaze. The other examiners grimaced, and Justicia elbowed him pointedly before assuming the lead. “I’m sure it wasn’t Master Lear’s intention to be so . . . _abrupt_ in his manner, Mr. Malfoy,” she soothed. “The conversations we have in this chamber tend to be more . . . _combative_ , shall we say, than otherwise. Please, if you would, tell us where you got Winter’s Master and how it was added to the potion.”

Lucius sniffed at the nominal apology. “I obtained the ingredient from Rufus Wingtree,” he said.

“Wingtree has a dubious reputation,” Warbles interjected censoriously.

“He’s a certified magical pharmacist with his own apothecary, which is _also_ licensed by the Ministry, and as far as I am aware, he and his premises officially have clear records,” Severus pointed out, glossing over everything _else_ that Wingtree was.

Lear harrumphed in obvious disdain.

“Go on if you would,” Justicia interjected with a wave of her hand.

“We took the ingredient to St. Mungo’s, and once we were at my wife’s bedside, Miss Granger added a measure to the first of two vials of the prepared potion. She then shook it gently until it was thoroughly mixed. I could pull the memory and put it in a pensieve if required.”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Malfoy,” Justicia replied. “What happened then? How was it administered?”

“Miss Granger used a dropper to give my wife the first vial and then performed a series of diagnostic spells to ensure that it was working properly. The healer who was on duty – Healer Wells,” he supplied to Severus, “also checked my wife’s vitals, with similar results. We waited twenty minutes, and Miss Granger repeated the procedure – along with the diagnostics. Once Healer Wells confirmed that the potion was doing its work she kicked us out.” There were some murmurs of disapproval behind them at that last bit of information.

“And how is Mrs. Malfoy today?” Justicia asked.

“Entirely recovered – spending me out of house and home,” he added. There were snickers of understanding around the room.  

“None of this negates the fact that Miss Granger effectively finished the potion out of the sight of Master Duggins,” Lear observed.

“The application for me to be Miss Granger’s supervisor on her master’s project was approved without reservation by the guild. Does this committee – do my esteemed _colleagues_ ,” Duggins turned slightly to acknowledge his peers, “now deem me _un_ qualified to supervise her work?”

The room immediately quieted. “There can be no question as to your qualifications, Master Duggins – your role was indeed cleared by the guild,” Justicia noted.   

“Then I must point out the obvious. Miss Granger has been working on her master’s project quite literally _out of my sight_ for many months, now, but all of you concur that I am nevertheless still qualified to perform such supervision.” There were a few outright guffaws from behind. “That being the case,” he continued, “I must argue that Miss Granger was as much under my direction and following my instructions while she was at Mrs. Malfoy’s bedside as she was in the lab at Hogwarts. Like Mr. Malfoy, I am perfectly willing to pull my memory for you – it will be audio only, though Miss Granger is probably willing to submit her memory as well.”

The three examiners huddled together to discuss their decision on the issue, with a lot of finger waving on the part of Justicia. When they broke apart, the witch delivered their judgement. “It is clear to us that Miss Granger was acting under the specific direction of Master Duggins in the preparation of the potion for Mrs. Malfoy and that there is no charge for her to answer in that regard.” From the satisfied sighs and murmurs of those present it was clear that everyone supported that decision.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, for taking time out of your busy schedule to attend today. We wish you a good afternoon,” Justicia dismissed him.

Lucius nodded at the committee, turned, and then took a seat in the first row, carefully and ostentatiously laying his cloak and gloves next to him – he wasn’t going anywhere, not when there was clearly going to be more entertainment. Severus smirked and resumed his own seat.

“Having dispensed with the . . . the _charge_ laid against you,” Lear resumed, “we will proceed to the oral examination. For everyone present, let me say that this morning Miss Granger passed the practical portion of the exam.” Before he could move on, Hermione once again heard her professor’s voice.

“For the benefit of everyone here, would the committee be so good as to share Miss Granger’s scores?”

 Lear glared at him and then looked down at the paper in front of him – he hadn’t planned on making that announcement, but now his hand was forced. “It was a hundred percent,” he said quietly.

“On both sections?” Severus pressed.

“Yes,” Lear replied rather strained, although he was almost immediately drowned out by the approving whispers of the other masters in attendance.

“The third portion of the exam,” Lear spoke over them, “involves the apprentice presenting her project to this committee and to the other masters present. Miss Granger,” he said, leveling his gaze at her, “we have a very general summary of your project, but would you now present the specifics of it to all of us here gathered?”

Hermione had watched the previous ten minutes as if in a trance – it was almost as if she hadn’t even been there. Now that it was her turn to take center stage, she took a deep, calming breath – and then began.

She explained how she was inspired by the nerve regeneration potion developed by her professor, which elicited mumbled approval among the other masters around the room who had clearly read his recent article on the subject.

“I was interested to see if the potion could be tailored to specific kinds of injuries. Master Snape’s nerve regeneration potion was intended to address a complete system failure, and in that regard, it was highly successful,” she noted, glancing briefly to her side in his direction, “but it couldn’t really be used to treat a _localized_ injury – it would no doubt _repair_ that injury, but it would likely over stimulate and cause damage in the rest of the body. My goal, then, was to try and modify the potion to address _specific_ injuries without causing adverse effects in other parts of the patient.” She paused to take a sip from the glass of water that had been provided.

“I went to St. Mungo’s to meet with some of the people who had been injured in the recent war. I was presented with all kinds of wounds – just . . . just _horrific_ injuries,” she said, her voice catching at the memory, “and I had to decide which of them I could realistically tackle, given the time constraints facing me in terms of this project, but also which were having the most impact on the patients themselves. With this in mind, I decided to work on treating ocular nerve damage.”

Once more, there were audible murmurs around the chamber, and she waited for them to die down before proceeding.

“There were three principle injuries – those caused by magic alone, those caused by physical injury alone, and those caused by a combination of both. Throughout the fall, I researched various magical ingredients with properties that are known to address ocular conditions – this included the flora in magical areas around the country but especially in the Forbidden Forest. Once these plants had been identified, I carried out experiments in the lab to see precisely _what_ aspects of eye problems they treated, what their potency was and if and how it could be singled out and _heightened_ , and finally, what their reactive qualities were to other similarly specialized ingredients and if and how those negative traits could somehow be _limited_.”

“That must have taken an _excessive_ amount of time to determine,” Lear interrupted, causing Severus to shift in his seat, but she wasn’t intimidated in the least.

“That’s where Arithmancy came into play,” she firmly replied.

The answer clearly confused not only Lear but his companions as well.

“Explain,” Lear peremptorily commanded, once he had regained his composure. Again, she heard Severus inhale deeply at the wizard’s tone.

“The kind of research I needed to do would, as you suggest, take an inordinate amount of time, which is why I developed a series of Aritmantic equations to narrow my focus.”

“Did you do this on your own, Miss Granger?” Lear broke in once more, again to Severus’s smoldering annoyance.

“Yes, although Master Duggins checked my work, as did Professor Septima Vector at Hogwarts.”

“Do you have some proof that _you_ rather than your Arithmancy professor developed these calculations?”

Hermione pawed through her papers, pulled out a letter from Professor Vector, and stepped around the lectern to hand it to Lear, who had not expected the proof he had demanded. He gave it a cursory look before passing it on to Justicia.

“Continue,” Lear said patronizingly.

“The equations narrowed down which of the ingredients were most likely to prove useful and saved me a significant amount of time. Once that had been accomplished, I began to combine what I thought would be the most fruitful of the ingredients . . . .”

Lear interrupted again. “How did you make those decisions?”

Before she could answer, Severus had leapt to his feet. “I must protest these _constant_ interruptions!” he bellowed.

“We have the right, nay the _obligation_ , to thoroughly question those who desire admittance to our guild,” Lear replied sharply.

“Indeed,” Severus drawled, his tone dripping with disdain, “but at the _end_ of the presentation. I have attended numerous defenses in my twenty years as a member of this esteemed organization – even conducted a few myself – and _never_ has a candidate been continually interrupted in this fashion.”

His peers seemed to concur, and more than one _hear, hear_ reverberated around the chamber, the loudest from Lucius Malfoy.

“On behalf of the candidate, _and_ my colleagues who have come to learn from her research, I _request_ ,” he sneered disrespectfully, “that she be allowed to present her work – _uninterrupted_.” He sat down and glared at Lear.

There was another consultation among the examiners – Lear appeared to fight his point with vigor, although he was overruled, and he sulked as Justicia agreed that Hermione should be permitted to present her thesis without interruption.

“Right,” Hermione said, looking down at her papers to find where she had been. “Right – so, I was talking about carrying out experiments with those ingredients that looked most promising. Since I wasn’t ready to test my theories on living beings, I used the preserved eyes of various animals. I concede this wasn’t ideal, but I needed to be certain of my findings before progressing to the next step, which was to modify Master Snape’s potion, determining how to redirect or at least limit the nerve regeneration properties of the potion to just the eyes.”

Hermione then detailed the various combinations that she had tried and why she adjusted or discarded some steps and added others. At long last, she went through the final ingredients list and the step-by-step process by which she brewed her potion.

“And now I turn to the administration of the potion to those patients identified by St. Mungo’s as being interested in participating in this study,” she announced mater-of-factly, using the natural break in her presentation to refresh herself. As she drank the water, she became aware of the palpable sense of anticipation that seemed to have fallen over the room. She turned slightly to look behind her – the masters were literally on the edge of their seats, staring at her in rapt attention.  

Returning to her papers, she proceeded. “The potion was designed to be administered in stages so as not to overwhelm the systems of those who would be taking it. The first vials were distributed to participants just before Easter. Since the healers at St. Mungo’s were concerned about possible adverse effects, the patients took the potion at the hospital and were kept there overnight for observation.”

Hermione took out four sets of papers, handed one to Severus and distributed the other three to her examiners. “Arthur Lisle, the Head Healer of the Nerve Damage Wing of St. Mungo’s and I agreed on what parameters to measure and then kept records independent of each other to chart the progress of the patients in this study – as I go through them, you will see that the results we separately recorded are nearly identical.” She looked up to make sure that they understood the importance of that bit of information before continuing. “Numbers rather than names were used to protect the anonymity of those involved, although both Healer Lisle and I have a list that correlates those numbers to specific individuals if any of you wish to see it,” she explained, again waiting to see if her examiners would ask for it – none did. Reassured that everyone was following her explanations, she moved on.

“As you can see, there were slight improvements in all three groups after the first dosage. The same was true after the second dose as well,” she noted, flipping to the next page – Severus and those at the table followed suit. “However, from the third dose onward, the patients started to improve _exponentially_ and they _continued_ on that trajectory through the fourth and fifth doses.” There was more rustling of papers as her results were examined.

“For the benefit of everyone here,” she turned to briefly acknowledge the masters behind her, “I will summarize the ultimate results.” She looked down at her figures. “There were thirty participants, evenly divided based on the three classes of injuries. Those whose injuries were caused principally by magic had the best results – in all but three instances, every one of the patients completely regained their sight. The three exceptions had their vision completely restored but still required lightly corrective spectacles.”

She moved on to the next group. “The patients that did the poorest were those who had lost their vision because of some kind of physical injury alone. All needed heavily corrective glasses, and all have limited vision at night, but they have recovered enough of their sight to live independently, which has resulted in a marked improvement in their quality of life.” She turned the page.

“Those who lost their vision because of a combination of magic _and_ physical injury can also all see again, although just how much sight they regained was dependent on which aspect of the injury predominated – those whose injury was mainly magical see better than those whose injury leaned more to the physical side.”

She looked up at that point. Justicia and Warbles were openly gaping at her, and even Lear had a look of incredulity on his face. She suddenly felt nervous again.

“That’s . . . that’s it, really,” she said quietly. “As . . . as required, I have written up these findings and submitted them for publication. I . . . I’m not sure when I might hear back from the editor,” she said rather hesitantly, “since I only sent it in yesterday.”

She heard someone rise behind her and all eyes turned to him. “Miss Granger, I am Waldo Thornbush, the editor of _Potioneer’s Quarterly_. I received your article late yesterday, and even after a cursory reading, I can assure you – can assure the _examiners_ – that it _will_ be published, and in the very next issue, given how important your work is.”

Just as that information started to sink in, someone started to clap – it was Lucius Malfoy – and he was soon joined by everyone in the room, who got to their feet as a further sign of their respect. She turned to Severus – he, too, was standing and slapping his hand together, but only in a cursory fashion. He looked as if he had been hit by a bludger, such was the stunned expression on his face. Tears were starting to form, and she quickly brushed them away as Lear hammered the table with a gavel and called for order.

“Does anyone have questions?” he asked, opening up the session to not only his colleagues but the rest of the room, signaling that the exam was not yet concluded – everyone retook their seats.  

“I have a question,” Justicia finally responded, gently laying the papers on the table in front of her. “Did any of the patients have any pain with the potion? It’s my understanding from Master Snape’s article that regeneration can be quite painful.”

“Um, yes, yes I did ask about that, especially since, as you say, Master Snape’s potion proved to be so painful – that was also one of the reasons why I administered the potion in five doses. A few of the patients reported . . . not exactly pain as much as discomfort at times, but none of them required a potion to combat it.”

Justicia nodded. “Including some testimonials in that regard would further enhance your thesis,” she suggested helpfully.  

“I think I can add to Miss Granger’s comments in this regard,” Duggins said, as he got to his feet. “It’s not discomfort, really, but rather a soreness, and it goes away within twenty-four hours of administering the doses.”

There were gasps as the enormity of what the old wizard had just said started to sink in.

“Master . . . Master Duggins,” Justicia spluttered, “are you . . . are you telling me – telling _us_ – that you can . . . that you can _see_?”

“Yes,” he said quite calmly. Even Severus could no longer hide the motion that was coursing through him. He slowly stood and grabbed his mentor by his arms, peering down into his _seeing_ eyes. Now almost everyone was on the verge of tears, not just Hermione.

“Oh, my dear _boy_ ,” Duggins murmured affectionately, loud enough for only Severus to hear. When he realized they had become the center of attention, Severus straightened his expression and sat back down, turning to look at Hermione, sheer incredulity at what she had accomplished writ large across his face.  

The examiners didn’t even bother to leave the room to discuss their decision, rather they huddled briefly before Lear once more banged the table to bring the humming in a room to a mere buzz.

“It is the decision of the examiners to admit Miss Hermione Granger as a full member in the Ancient and Honorable Guild of Potioneers.”

The room erupted even before Lear had finished making the pronouncement. The reporter’s camera started to flash as Hermione was immediately surrounded by her now fellow members, each wanting to offer congratulations and ask her further questions. The whiskey appeared shortly after that, although she was too busy even to take a celebratory sip. It was forty minutes before the last of her new admirers finally departed and she could make her way over to where Severus, Lucius, and Duggins were still enjoying their spirits.

“Miss Granger,” Lucius cooed, raising her hand to kiss it, “my heartiest congratulations. It’s the best show I’ve seen in _years_. When you’ve quite regained your senses, it would be my pleasure – and _honor_ – to have you, have _all_ of you,” he gestured to her companions, “come to dinner. My wife has something she would like to say to you and it must be done in person,” he said smoothly. “Have Severus let me know when would be convenient.” With that, he handed off his drink and picked up his cape, throwing it dramatically around him – he nodded to Severus and Duggins, taking his leave.

Hermione looked at Duggins, who reached for both of her hands and drew her close – he kissed her on both cheeks. “Well done, my dear – a splendid performance based on an _extraordinary_ piece of work.” He released her and, glancing at Severus, indicated that he would wait for them outside in the corridor.

Suddenly, she found herself shy, and could only peek at her professor from under her lashes.

It took him a moment to find his voice “Your . . . _audaciousness_ leaves me quite without words,” he croaked. Her response was to thrust herself towards him, his arms automatically wrapping around her. Only then – and for the first time in _weeks_ – did she truly relax.

He, however, was in utter turmoil. Why would a truly _extraordinary_ witch like her want to stay with _him_ when she obviously had so bright a future?

 


	16. Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus tries to steady himself for the talk that he and Hermione must have about their future. In preparation for this conversation, he feels driven to create a few "memories" in case things don't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are galloping to the end, now - only one more chapter to go, which is titled Hogwarts.

**Severus**

They all sat down for tea when they got back to Hogwarts, after which Duggins excused himself and retired to his rooms – he would join them for dinner and stay the night before heading back to his island. Severus insisted that Hermione lie down for a bit, since she was distinctly heavily lidded by the end of her cuppa. She vowed not to nap for more than for twenty minutes, but when he checked on her after only five, she was deeply, profoundly asleep. He spent an hour catching up on some work while she slept but as the clock inched towards six, he was beginning to wonder if she’d miss dinner completely. But he finally heard her stir, and when she appeared in the door of his bedroom, she was groggy and her hair stuck out every which way. Finding her energy flagging, she wasn’t terribly keen on making an appearance at high table, but since Severus was required to do so, he persuaded her to join him – as long as she did something with her unruly coiffure. She harrumphed, but retreated to the bathroom. When she returned, she glanced around the room.

“Have you seen my robe?” she asked, going to the rack by the door to see if he had hung it there.

“I sent it off to be cleaned – there was something on the front of it,” he replied, getting up from his desk. 

“I don’t remember spilling anything,” she said, almost to herself.

“That’s hardly surprising given that your attention was mostly elsewhere today,” he said casually. “Just come as you are – Minerva won’t mind under the circumstances.” He went to the door and stood by it expectantly. When she hesitated, he growled. “We are already _late_ , Miss Granger.”

They made their way up from the dungeons in silence. He held the hall door open for her, but she hardly registered it, still going the events of that afternoon in her mind. She was no more than a few feet in, though, when she was startled out of her reverie by a loud rumbling. Looking up she saw that everyone had gotten to their feet, even those at the faculty table, and she paused.

“You’re on your _own_ , Miss Granger,” he said as he stepped effortlessly around her and strode briskly up the center of the room to take his place among his colleagues.

The clapping began slowly until it became a roaring cacophony, with a lot of whooping and whistling to go with it all. She made her way towards the dais, looking down to hide the tears that were forming, her breath hitching with emotion. She was met at the steps by Minerva, who held out her robes – the insignia on the shoulder had been changed from that of an apprentice to one of a fully-fledged member of the Ancient and Honorable Guild of Potioneers. The headmistress helped her put it on, secured the front buttons, and then turned her to face the cheers of the students. She smiled shyly, gave a small wave, and went over to where Severus was holding out her chair. She paused only for a moment before grinning widely and flinging herself into his arms, which he instinctively wrapped around her if only to keep from falling over. The cheering got louder at that, even though he quickly disentangled himself, glared disapprovingly over the room, and stiffly indicated her seat.

She was positively effervescent over dinner, and with good reason. There were drinks with Minerva and the other professors afterwards, so by the time they got back to his quarters she was completely knackered and went right to bed, sleeping straight through despite the earlier nap. When she woke in the morning Severus was already gone, off to terrorize his classes about their upcoming OWLs and NEWTs. He was so busy that he came into lunch only to grab a sandwich, bid his mentor a quick adieu – with promises to visit soon – and head back to his office, which was all just as well since she and Duggins were having one last important meeting with Minerva before the wizard departed for his island home. When that was done, they made their way down to the courtyard where his worn, economy broom was already standing in a corner, just waiting to be mounted.

“Will you be alright to fly?” she asked, looking skeptically at the handle and discolored bristles.

“Oh, I should think so – it’s like riding a bicycle!” he humorously assured her.

She smiled at that, but then grew shy. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Duggins . . . for _everything_ ,” she said quietly.

He reached out, took her hand, and squeezed it with affection. “It is _I_ who thank _you_ , Miss . . . _Hermione_ ,” he corrected himself, “and not just for myself, but for Severus as well, and for all of the people who will benefit from your work.” He paused before carefully giving further words to his thoughts. “We often touch the lives of others in ways we simply can’t begin to imagine, and that’s what you’ve done this last year and more. _Always_ remember that, because it’s the most important thing in life – giving ourselves to others and doing so with a full heart. Even if you can’t always fix their disabilities – whatever they might be – you _can_ enrich their souls and make their lives whole again in other ways.” He stared meaningfully at her before leaning forward and kissing her lightly on the cheek.

She couldn’t reply – she was too teary and choked with emotion, so she simply nodded at him and smiled.

He stepped away and straddled the broom. It lifted and he slowly circled the courtyard, getting higher with each turn until it was finally enough to clear the walls – she couldn’t help but laugh. He gave one last wave and then puttered off in a westerly direction.

Hermione found herself rather at loose ends for the rest of the day. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have things to do – she did, so much so that she wondered if she’d be able to get everything done before school started in the fall – but she couldn’t really start anything until the term was finished. She wandered the halls, stopping at the doors of classrooms to listen briefly to lectures she had already heard and had practically memorized. Even the library held no allure. Certainly there were stacks of books in her room that she wanted, even _needed_ to read – she took one out on the lawn to peruse – but she just couldn’t focus. Reading had always been part of larger projects and done under time constraints – luxuriating in the warm May sun in the school’s well-manicured grounds, close in proximity to the nearly three hundred students sweating out the last of the year’s classes, made her feel like she was playing hooky. At dinner she cornered Minerva and offered to run OWL and NEWT revision sessions during the day for students who had free periods, and also volunteered to run a couple of evening gatherings during the week. Severus overheard her and made a seemingly disparaging comment about her swotty ways, but it wasn’t actually meant unkindly and she took it for the comfortable teasing that it was.

In between all the tutorials, she helped him grade essays and run the student labs. She still wasn’t as busy as she had been, but it filled her days and she felt like she was making a valuable contribution. But two weeks later it abruptly came to an end when the students departed for the summer hols. The dorms were immediately invaded by an army of house elves who made the rooms habitable again while the magical contractors stepped up their rebuilding work, which was slated to be finished by the end of the summer. Closing down the potions classroom, including taking inventory of the stockroom to see what needed to be ordered for the next school year, only took a couple of days, and after that was done Severus spent the rest of the first week of the break at the Ministry, assisting with its case against Ledbetter’s crew. Most of the other professors had already left for more enjoyable climes – the only ones who were still in residence were Minerva and Pamona. Even Neville had gone away to spend some time with his grandmother.

She was on tenterhooks waiting for Severus to bring up the conversation they were supposed to have on how they saw their personal and professional lives unfolding, but he was pretty tired and usually in a foul mood when he got back in the evenings from the Ministry and she understood why he might not want to speak of such things until this other business was behind them. So once more, she found she had time on her hands. She didn’t like being unoccupied, but the house elves looked horrifyingly askance at her offer to help around the castle and the magical contractors were doing work that required rather specialized skills, which she didn’t have. So she tended the potions garden, discussed with Pamona ideas she had for expanding it, and spent time with Minerva going over plans for the next academic year. But she was getting antsy, so much so that by the weekend she intended to raise the subject of their future herself, the Ministry trials be damned. Even though she had essentially tossed their agreement out the window after being kidnapped, there were still things – vitally _important_ things – that needed to be said, and by Merlin she was ready to say them. _Past_ ready, in fact. But she spent the whole of Saturday alone – _again_. There was no word from Severus when he might be back, so she decided to make an early night of it – she would indulge a guilty pleasure, which was reading in bed.  

The aroma of her dinner still lingered in the air when he finally got back to his rooms. He sloughed off his robes before sitting down at the desk to look through the sheaf of papers he had with him. Satisfied that everything was in order, he put them aside. He’d be called to testify the following week about Ledbetter’s demise, and Shacklebolt was certain that the Wizengamot would believe his story that the renegade enforcer had been killed in self-defense. It was true enough, but it also wasn’t the _whole_ truth. He also hoped that Potter’s testimony as to what happened up to the moment the young man portkeyed Hermione away would be sufficient and that she wouldn’t be called to make a statement in court as well. Merlin, he wanted to be done mopping up the Dark Lord’s continuing mess. Then there was that other thing that was keeping him preoccupied.

He got up from the desk and wandered over to the sideboard to pour a small whiskey. He had promised Hermione that they would sit down and talk about their future at the end of the term. Well, school was over and it was time to face what had become his greatest fear. He used to think that it had been being exposed to Voldemort before he could pass on the necessary information to Potter, but the stakes now felt a lot higher than that. Somehow Hermione had managed to push Lily completely from the forefront his mind. He still felt his part in the death of his childhood friend keenly, but his former student _had_ gotten him to see his role in the war a bit differently as she went about collecting the ingredients necessary for the nerve regeneration potion that had saved him the year before. Since then, her influence had only grown greater. His destiny – whatever it ultimately turned out to be – was now just a room away, and he really couldn’t put off talking to her for much longer. But first, he needed something to fortify himself if their conversation didn’t go well. Throwing back the drink, he went through to the bedroom.

She looked up from her reading when he came in. “I thought I heard you – are you hungry?” she asked, closing and setting aside her book.

He paused, taking in her dishevelment. Her hair – her wild, unruly hair that he annoyingly found snaked around his neck and face each morning – was softly draped around her shoulders and falling across her chemise covered breasts. Her face was flushed and her eyes glinted from having been fully enthralled in her bedtime reading. Glancing at the night stand, he read _Potions and Arithmancy: Brewing by the Numbers_ across the spine. His lips reflexively curled upwards at both the title and the fact that only _she_ could get excited by such a text. By Merlin, he loved her even more for it.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, noting the peculiar look on his face.

His response was to give her a smoldering look of intent as he slipped off his robe and let it drop to the floor. Without taking his eyes off of her, he began to undo his coat. Hermione grinned, swiftly throwing back the covers and getting up on her knees, swatting at his hands so she could take over their task.

“I’ve told you before – _I_ prefer to be the one doing this,” she informed him as her small fingers wrestled with the large buttons – he smirked and watched entranced as she carefully undid each one before moving on to those at his cuffs. When she was finished, she ran her hands unhurriedly up his chest to push the garment off his shoulders. She took her time removing his silk cravat – having untied the knot, she pulled one end slowly until it was free of his collar. The tiny buttons on his white cambric shirt were next, and as she neared the bottom, she yanked the tails out of his trousers so she could undo the rest – the shirt quickly joined the other clothes. She could not tear her eyes away from his scars – the sight of them always took her by surprise – and she traced each mark with the tips of her fingers, followed by her lips.

How she could do that, how she didn’t recoil in revulsion at his disfigurements he couldn’t begin to fathom, but she tended to them with care until she reached the last and very worst of them all. He tried not to flinch but couldn’t help grabbing her arms defensively. Still, she continued on her trajectory, touching her lips tenderly to the mass of scar tissue at his neck. As he relaxed under her ministrations, she moved upward, running her nose along his jaw, working her way towards his eager and parted lips.

It was like fire meeting air, one element willingly and eagerly fueled by the other. They quickly slipped out of the rest of their clothing, barely breaking their connection. He gently pushed her back on to the bed, letting his weight rest at her hips. Her legs immediately opened to him in welcome while her feet rubbed against him encouragingly.  

He tried to break off their kiss as he struggled to calm himself, but she wasn’t having any of it. She rose up again and again to his panting mouth, pressed her hips upwards to his member and tangled her fingers in his hair so he couldn’t move away – it was _agonizing_. If it had been any other coupling he would have penetrated her immediately, giving them both the relief they desperately sought knowing that there would be time enough later to take things more leisurely. But it _wasn’t_ any other encounter. Although he felt reasonably certain that her reappearance in his chambers a few weeks before signaled she had made her decision and that it was in his favor, he was never one to take _anything_ for granted given his past. That being the case, this could potentially be his last night with her if their looming conversation went south and he needed to create enough memories to last him the rest of his life if it came to it. So he pushed away more firmly, just enough for him to run his lips across her flushed cheek, down her smooth neck, and along her collar bone. Shifting further, he continued to her breasts until he reached a tantalizingly pert nipple. He suckled lightly at first, but gradually increased the pressure as he manipulated its twin, pinching and pulling it by turns, making her writhe against him.

He inched downward, letting his nose graze against her skin as he drew closer to the scent that affected him more than anything else he had ever known. She was no longer shy about such things, and opened further for him without needing to be encouraged. He hovered, breathing her in as one might a fine wine, taking in the faint notes of her soap and laundry detergent against the full-bodied aroma of her earthy arousal. It stimulated him almost more than the sight of her naked, but when they were combined, it filled him with combustible desire. Since having resumed residence again in his quarters, he kept track of when she showered, taking illicit pleasure in retrieving – and enjoying – her discarded but still warm underwear on the bathroom floor. He gave every impression that he was exasperated at having to clean up after her, but the truth was far more elemental than that.

Hermione tried to remain still so as not to injure that delightfully wicked nose of his. It nearly made her come the way he lingered over her, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. She knew perfectly well how much her scent aroused him – he snatched away her knickers almost before they hit the bathroom floor. He thought she didn’t know, of course, and she would never let on that she did, enjoying the slight kinkiness of it, but at the moment he had been stationary too long for her liking, and she squirmed a bit to spur him onward – he took the hint.

He stretched out his tongue, barely needing to invade her to find the swollen nub – the response was electric, but his hands on either thigh held her in place. He continued to explore, circling and circling with intermittent swishes across her pleasure point. He repeated this a few times before insinuating first one finger and then another inside. Merlin, she was wet – _he_ had done that, he thought smugly, as he coordinated his fingers with his tongue. She was so primed that it didn’t take long – she froze as her climax ripped through her. He could just feel her cervix contracting rhythmically against the tips of his fingers – even after she had stopped thrashing, the fluttering continued, though getting slower and further apart.

She pulled on his arms demandingly and he climbed back up her body – she sported the loopy expression she always did after coming hard. Again, the thought that he had done that ran through his mind and he reveled in the fact that _he_ was the one who had put that sated smile on her face.

Just as he was about to settle once more on top of her she pushed him off, insistently directing him to lie back – the gleam in her eye was decidedly mischievous and in the moment he wasn’t one to argue. Straddling his thighs – and for the moment ignoring his erection nudging her abdomen – she spread her hands out over his bare chest, relishing the feel of his hair beneath her fingers. He had been all skin and bones only a year before, but after months of eating regularly again, and without the stress of being the most hated yet successful spy in wizarding history, the space between his ribs had filled in and his hip bones didn’t dig into her quite so sharply anymore. His eyes were no long sunken or his cheeks hollow, which softened his face over all, making his nose seem less prominent. He was still quite sinewy, though – his frame would always belie his actual physical strength and the sheer power of his magic, and she found that aspect of him particularly arousing. His outward appearance was, and had always been, deceptive, but not to her, not any longer and it further fueled her hunger for him.

Her fingers ran lightly down his sides and he suddenly grabbed her wrists – the friendly warning was clear, he was _not_ to be tickled. She giggled and pulled her hands away, then slid lower and rested them on his thighs to better address his attention seeking member. It was weeping . . . weeping for _her_ , and that filled her heart. Lowering her head, she reverently put her lips to the tip and swirled her tongue. He threw his head back at that. Cupping his balls, which were tight against his body, she nuzzled his length with her nose. The skin was like satin, the smoothest thing she had ever felt, and she gave him one, long lick along the underside in appreciation.

He looked down at himself in blank wonderment at the woman who was so languidly fellating him. She appeared . . . _intoxicated_ was the only word for it, what with her lids only half open and her pupils dilated from her lust. When she finally took him fully into her mouth, her tongue caressing him as she sucked, he clenched the sheets with all of his strength so as not to force himself further in and immediately coming in her mouth – that was _not_ how he wanted things to finish, not tonight at any rate.

He reached for the hand that griped him and dragged her up next to him. Before she could lie down, he turned her around, placing her palms along the top of the headboard as she knelt once more on the bed – it was her favorite position and she wiggled her bum excitedly. He was practically breathless in the face of her anticipation. Starting at her shoulders, he slowly and quite deliberately drew his hands down her back – he wanted to memorize every mole, scar, and indentation. When he reached her hips, she tilted them towards him and it was all instinct after that. He slipped easily between her thighs to ready himself before angling just so and . . . .

Neither could hold back their moans – she was stretched and filled to capacity, while he was enveloped in her tight, wet heat. Clutching her hips – there would be bruises in the morning – he bowed his head and rested it against the center of her back to catch his breath. She, too, was breathing hard, fighting against the urge to push back against him. When he regained some control, he pulled out slightly and then pushed back in once more. The shallow strokes soon lengthened and became more forceful. Reaching around with one hand, he quickly sped her on her way, and when she came, she shrieked. His swotty, know-it-all bookworm lover actually _shrieked_. But then, so apparently did he, based on the way his throat felt when he finally became aware of his surroundings again.

They fell backwards onto the bed, panting, perspiring, and facing completely the wrong way around.

“I think you’ve killed me,” he gasped haltingly, blinking to try and clear his vision as he stared at the canopy above them.

“Well, it’s not _la petite mort_ for _nothing_ ,” she managed to retort, also breathing hard.

They lay there quietly, she with an arm and leg stretched across him as he held her in place. When the chill of the room finally became uncomfortable she sighed and rolled to the side of the bed. She was careful not to try and stand too quickly after their exertions, and he watched her intently as a sense of melancholy started to creep in along the edge of his mind. She was half way to the bathroom when he called to her – she turned and looked at him questioningly. Her face and chest were flushed, her fly-away hair completely out of control, and their combined fluids trailing down one leg. He absolutely ached for her, and in a way that wholly transcended the physical.

“Do you want anything . . . to eat or drink?” he stammered, trying to cover for himself.

“No – let’s just cuddle, if you don’t mind,” she replied bashfully before proceeding on into the bathroom.

Cuddle. A year ago he would have sneered at such a word, but it was everything to him now. He wasn’t good enough for someone like her – he knew it, felt it quite _profoundly_ in fact in the aftermath of their love making. The confidence that he had felt earlier about what her decision might be seemed less certain now, but at the very least he could continue to create his memories through the night even as he held her, smelled her, and watched over her sleeping form. It was the only thing that would steady him in the morning and all that daylight would bring.


	17. Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus and Hermione decide what it is they really want, personally and professionally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter - sigh. I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I did in writing it. If you have, let me know - the best Christmas present I could get! I hope to post another story sometime in the spring. In the meantime, have a great holiday!

**Hogwarts**

She leapt out of bed full of her usual enthusiasm for the start of a new day. By contrast, his arse dragged pitifully after a night of agonizing restlessness. While she had slept blissfully next to him, lightly snoring now and again, he dozed fitfully, waking frequently in a panic at seeing her in his dreams snogging not only all of her friends but some of _his_ as well. And now she was practically humming her way through the hefty breakfast his house elf provided while he could only manage a slice of toast and a large mug of black coffee.

“I need to collect some algae down by the lake after breakfast – wanna come?” she asked nonchalantly, pouring out her tea.

He froze momentarily but quickly recovered, lifting his morning java to his lips to give him some time to formulate a response. He knew perfectly well that harvesting algae was merely an excuse to get out of his rooms for their “talk.” His confidence from the previous evening had completely dissipated and he thought dismally on what would likely take place down by the lake – she’d thank him for all his help with the apprenticeship, tell him she learned a lot over the course of the last year, and then express a fervent hope that they could always remain _friends_. His default instinct was to tell her to fuck off, but that really hadn’t gotten him very far in the past, so he offered a more measured response.

“Alright,” he mumbled.

He got up and crossed over to his desk to look again at the papers he had left there the evening before – it was only distraction until she was ready to go.

It wasn’t long before the dishes were vanished and she was heading for the door with a bowl for the algae. “I’ll be a moment,” he said as she stepped into the corridor. He got up, scanned the shelves at the end of his desk and pulled out a small volume, slipping it into a pocket.

They said nothing as they worked their way up to the courtyard. It was a warm, clear, early summer day and she pointed out the work that the contractors still had to do and how Minerva hoped it would all finally be done by the start of the new school year. He knew all this, of course, but let her natter on about it anyway – it was better than him trying to keep up the pretense that he didn’t know she was about to jilt him.

When they reached the shore, she knelt down and scooped up some green sludge with her hand, letting the water drip away through her fingers. After a second pass, she rinsed her hands in the water, stood, and went over to one of the larger rocks flanking the lake to sit down. Looking at him expectantly, he glumly settled in next to her. They stared out over the water for a few minutes before he cleared his throat – whatever else he was, he was not coward.

“It’s been almost a year, Miss Granger,” he formally addressed her. “School is out and you’ve got your potion’s credential. The first question of order is what you now plan to do with it” He turned his black eyes upon her – he had begun their conversation with the least potentially devastating issue. She took a deep, steadying breath, which he didn’t take as a good sign.

“Before I can answer that, I need _you_ to tell me what you want _your_ professional life to look like in the coming years,” she replied, looking at him intently. 

They stared at each other for a moment before he shifted his gaze back to the lake. “I would like to do more research,” he began, as if explaining things to the Giant Squid. “You’ve demonstrated that it’s possible to alter the nerve regeneration potion to treat specific injuries, and that’s something that obviously needs to be investigated further. But it’s going to be a challenge,” he stated, turning back to look at her. She raised a questioning brow. “Research is a very slow, time-consuming process, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize this last year,” he observed, “and you need a steady income in order to _fund_ that research, as well as to feed and house yourself while pursuing those investigations. What this means in practical terms is that I have to keep teaching – since my room and board along with my lab are paid for by my labors – and carve out my research as best I can, funding it with the pitiful sum the Board of Governors has the temerity to call a _salary_.”   

She was sporting a rather odd expression by the time he finished the assessment of his situation – her eyes were almost . . . _twinkly_ and she had a goofy smile on her face, as if she was trying to repress something.

“What about you, Miss Granger – how do you see _your_ professional life unfolding?” he asked crisply, trying hard to sound neutral. She was practically bouncing where she sat, which meant that someone had probably already made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

“There’s something I need to tell you . . . .” she began slowly, obviously trying to pace herself rather than just simply blurting it all out at once – his heart sank. “I made this proposal . . . well, _we_ made a proposal,” she corrected, “to Minerva a while back, and had a meeting about it before the term finished . . . .”

“Please,” the headmistress said, gesturing at the chairs in front of her desk. “I’ve spoken with the Board of Governors about this, as well as with Kingsley, and everyone is agreed that the proposal is something we should explore.” Hermione squirmed excitedly in her chair at the news while Duggins simply smiled serenely. “The next step is to map out _exactly_ what the program is going to look like – if this is going to succeed, we have to start planning _now_ so we’ll be ready by September. And then we have to strategize about how we are going to present it to Severus,” she added conspiratorially. “Since you made the suggestion, Hermione, I assume you have worked out some of the details?”

“Well, first off, I can’t take all the credit – indeed, I can hardly take any, it was just something that Mr. Duggins said to me,” she modestly informed the headmistress, squeezing her hands demurely in her lap even though she was nearly bursting with barely controlled enthusiasm.

“On the contrary, my dear,” the wizard said generously, reaching over to pat her arm, “it was really you who gave voice to the possibility of continuing with the research and linking it to the school.”

“But if it hadn’t been for you . . . .” Hermione started before being interrupted.

“I’m sure there is enough credit to go around,” Minerva smiled indulgently, “but before we get too far off track, let’s get to the specifics of what we’re talking about, shall we?”

Hermine cleared her throat. “Well, as it says in the proposal, I was thinking that Hogwarts could be a center for researching and treating nerve damage, of both the magical _and_ Muggle variety. What this would mean in practical terms is reducing Severus’s teaching load so that he could have a day or two each week to dedicate to this work. I could take those classes and maybe a couple of others, if there is a need – after all, I _will_ need to pay for my keep,” she added suggestively, eying her former mentor.

“Well you could certainly take a couple of mine,” Minerva quickly allayed her concerns. “It would relieve some of the pressures I face teaching _and_ trying to run this place at the same time, but I gather that you are also thinking about some _new_ classes? That might put some staff noses out of joint,” the headmistress said almost to herself as she gave it consideration. 

“Actually, I was thinking along the lines of _seminars_ rather than formal classes, but in either case nothing that I’m suggesting would take away from the current curriculum – that would stay the same, because the _last_ thing I want to do is step on anyone’s toes,” Hermione informed her. “No, the kind of program I envision is one that students would pursue by using their _free_ periods during the week and perhaps some of the time they would otherwise spend in the Friday study halls – I was also thinking that participants might be willing to give up their Saturday mornings as well,” she added a bit hesitantly, uncertain if Minerva would go so far as to agree to that.

“That actually sounds quite reasonable under the circumstances – it would ensure that only those students who are really serious would apply to the program since they would have to use the rest of their evenings to prepare for their other classes.”

“The interdisciplinary aspects of the program would probably also go some distance in addressing faculty concerns,” Duggins threw in.

Minerva nodded in agreement. “So we’re talking about linking the fields of healing, herbology, potions, and Arithmancy – have you mentioned this to anyone?”

“I’ve already approached Madam Pomfrey – quite informally, mind you,” Hermione said deferentially to the headmistress, “about taking on the healing portion of the program, and Professor Sprout was pretty intrigued about doing advanced sessions on the medicinal properties of plants, both their use and propagation. I haven’t talked to Professor Vector yet about doing the Arithmancy aspects of the program, but if she was too busy I could do it myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’d have to worry about Septima,” Minerva commented. “I think this is just the sort of thing she’d enjoy, especially if you were willing to teach one of her classes so she would have the time to work something up. How would the students be evaluated?”

“I thought they could sit some kind of examination drawn up by the instructors – they would then get a certificate reflective of the work they’ve done,” Hermione continued.

“It would nicely set students up to go on to more advanced studies if they wanted, and certainly we need more witches and wizards going into these fields,” Duggins observed.

“I fully support this program, but there are two problems that need to be addressed,” Minerva noted. “The first of these is, of course, financial.”

“I’ve considered that,” Hermione cut in. “I’ve already submitted a patent application for the potion I developed for ocular nerve damage. I don’t expect to make a lot of money – that’s not the reason I did the project – but whatever comes in I could give to the school to support this program.”

“That’s . . . that’s very generous of you, Hermione,” Minerva replied, genuinely touched, “but I wouldn’t expect – or _want_ – you to bear that burden all by yourself. It’s important that the school step up as well, but your gesture _would_ go some distance in persuading the Governors and the Ministry that this is something we should do.”

“It would enhance the school’s reputation immensely,” Duggins interjected, “and surely that would carry a good deal of weight with them as well?”

“Just what I was thinking, Bert,” Minerva replied, “so I think we can work through some of the more pressing financial aspects this summer and then as we go along the first year. I don’t imagine it will be an issue after that since I fully expect this program will be highly successful, not to mention popular among the students. We might even be able to persuade the Ministry to start giving us grants at that point.”

“And your second concern?” Duggins asked, as if he didn’t already know.

“Severus,” she said steadily. “He’s not especially . . . how shall I put it . . . .”

“ _Sociable_?” Hermione offered diplomatically, with more than a hint of humor.

“Indeed,” Minerva smiled. “Conversations with his colleagues over dinner is one thing – working collaboratively with them will be something else altogether, I imagine.”

“I can be an intermediary – if it became necessary,” Hermione said determinedly.

“And working this closely with students, which this program would require, might also be a . . . a . . . .”

“ _Challenge_?” she again supplied.

“I think he might be more amenable to all of this than you imagine,” Duggins said knowingly.

“I agree,” Hermione quickly added. “The students would all be seventh-years, and they’d have to apply to be in this program – they would have to the grades, the inclination, _and_ the right attitude. And they would know, _right from the start_ that they’d be working with him – with all of us, for that matter. The program would be something that they genuinely _wanted_ to do. That fact might change the dynamics of the teacher-pupil relationship in a considerable way.”

“And you think he’d be interested in the research?” Minerva prodded.

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Duggins replied with conviction. “It’s what he’s _always_ wanted to do but never had the time.”

“Some of the students currently enrolled have parents and siblings who fought in the war,” Minerva stated, almost to herself, “loved ones who have suffered grave injuries. Almost a dozen students didn’t return this year because of their _own_ terrible wounds,” she continued with great sadness. “If there is _anything_ we can do to help them improve the quality of their lives, then we absolutely _must_ do it. We are fortunate to have experts in the fields necessary to carry out this research all under one roof – we mustn’t waste this talent.”

Hermione and Duggins nodded soberly.

“Do you want to be the one to approach Severus?” Minerva asked her former student.

“Yes – I think it would be best.” 

“Right, then,” the headmistress said with finality, unfolding her clasped hands and laying them palm down on her desk. “It’s decided.”

Hermione grinned at both her and the wizard next to her.

“Excellent!” Duggins proclaimed. “Since everything is now so nicely arranged, I think I shall take my leave,” he said, getting to his feet. “Thank you for the hospitality, Minerva – I hope you will come out with Severus and Hermione some evening to enjoy a game of chess and good Scottish whiskey.”

“It would be my pleasure, Bert,” she said warmly, standing and extending her hand over the top of the desk – he took it and kissed it lightly, adhering to the old ways of doing things. “I’ll meet you in the courtyard,” he said to Hermione, leaving the women to finish their conversation.

Minerva sat down in her chair and looked at the pride of her House. “So – you’re _staying_?” she asked expectantly, with a sparkle in her eye that would have done even Dumbledore proud.

Hermione smiled broadly. “Yes, I’m staying – if he’ll let me.”

“I _don’t_ think that will be a problem,” the headmistress replied knowingly. “I’ll draft a tentative budget, jot down some notes, and once you’ve talked to Severus, we’ll get together  and go over them,” she said, pulling out a blank piece of paper to begin the work.

“So you see,” Hermione concluded, “Minerva is already setting things up for this program in the fall, but it just won’t work unless you are at the center of it.” She nibbled on her bottom lip as the information slowly sank in, uncertain as to what his reaction might be.

He reached out to grip her shoulders. “You’re . . . _staying_?” he barely whispered, scanning her face in astonishment.

His response took her by surprise. “I map out one of the most innovative interdisciplinary programs in recent history – if I say so myself – and the only thing you took away from it was the fact that I’m _staying_?” she commented incredulously. “Of _course_ I’m staying – I thought I made that clear _last night_ , thought I had been making my intentions obvious ever since I moved back in,” she said, growing indignant.

He had the grace to look a bit sheepish. He struggled for the right words, but only one came to him. “ _Why_?”

It nearly broke her heart. “Because I love you, you silly man!”

He still couldn’t believe his ears. “But I’m a bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, conniving, manipulative bastard,” he said earnestly.

“Yes, by Merlin, you _are_ ,” she emphatically agreed, reaching up to cup his cheek, “but you’re _my_ bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, conniving, manipulative bastard,” she said affectionately.

“Are you _sure_?” he murmured, still gripping her fiercely. “There _won’t_ be any going back after this, I won’t _ever_ let you go . . . .”

“Oh, Severus,” she sighed. “I have kissed a _lot_ of frogs these last few months. In . . . in addition to Neville, Harry, and Lucius,” she nervously confessed, “Ron and George also kissed me.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied with some irritation.

“You _know_?” she exclaimed.

“Of course I know!” he couldn’t help but sneer.

“How?” she asked, growing perturbed that none of it apparently had been secret from him.

“I’ve had the misfortune to be there for all of them, except Lucius,” he admitted, “not that I ever wanted to,” he assured her, “especially not after Neville,” he physically cringed. “After that, it was simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time – _repeatedly_ ,” he added with considerable annoyance.

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Then you know that I wasn’t the least bit interested in any of them.”

“Not even Lucius?” he queried with a furrowed brow, knowing only too well the man’s effect on women.

She looked down for a moment, before raising her eyes once more. “I admit to having been a bit . . . _overwhelmed_ by his, shall we say, _charms_ ,” she acknowledged hesitantly, “but that wasn’t enough,” she quickly added. “And it wasn’t enough that Neville, Harry, Ron, and George were my _friends_ , either. I was always comparing them – and doing so unfavorably – to _you_.” She stared intently into his dark eyes. “You don’t lie to me, Severus, even just to be kind, nor do you spare me your criticism when you think I’m wrong. You don’t pretend to be anything you aren’t – although I should also say that you need to come to terms with the fact that you _are_ a hero for what you did these last few years, and I can help you with that,” she swiftly appended. “But more than anything else,” she continued, “you simply challenge me to be my very best – and you love me anyway when I fall short. You, and you alone, Severus, are my _Prince_.”

He swallowed hard – it was the declaration he had wanted but was afraid might not be forthcoming. “I have stood before the Dark Lord,” he began haltingly, “knowing full well that I was going to be tortured – abused in ways that I have never spoken of and that you mercifully can never imagine. And yet the thing that has frightened me most – actually _terrified_ me – is that you would decide to leave. I tell you this _not_ because I would ever want you to stay out of some obligation,” he said hurriedly, “but because I want you to know that I would have let you go – if that was what you wanted. I have always been prepared to lose you and I would have been willing just to be your friend if that was all you could offer – it still would have been more than I deserved.”

She gave him a watery smile. “Oh, Severus,” she sniffled. “We really _are_ going to have to work on your sense of self-worth,” she said kissing him firmly. Pulling back, she peered into his face. “So you’ll be a part of the program?” she asked softly.

The corners of his mouth curved mischievously. “As long as you understand that I really _am_ a bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, conniving, manipulative bastard likely to yell at colleagues and students alike.”

“We wouldn’t have you any other way,” she replied, tucking his hair behind his ears familiarly.

“I see – it’s already arranged,” he observed perceptively. “You’re going to run interference between me and everyone else, aren’t you,” he stated more than asked.  

“Yes,” she confessed defensively, “but it _would_ make my job easier if you didn’t shout at people _too_ often,” she responded, patting his chest familiarly then drawing back in curiosity at the object she had felt in the pocket of his robe. Remembering, he pulled out the volume, turning it over in his hand as he considered it.

“Merlin knows you’ve waited nigh on eight years to hear me say this, but I am so very . . . _very_ proud of you,” he said, handing her the book.

“ _Circe’s Potions_ ,” she whispered reverently as the magic flowed over her hands.

“This has been handed down from master to apprentice for no one knows how many centuries, and some day, you, too, will pass it on accordingly . . . but not . . . .”

“. . . right away,” she interrupted, “since you’d like to have access to it,” she said laughingly.

“Something like that,” he conceded, giving her a rather crooked smile.

“Thank you Severus – it’s an _extraordinary_ gift,” she said softly, kissing him once more. Then she grinned, leapt off the rock, and grabbed his hand, pulling him upright.

“Where are we going?” he asked, startled at the sudden action.

“Minerva will want to know that you’re on board. There is _sooooo_ much to do, we _have_ to get started immediately! Pomfrey and Sprout have already signed on, but we still have to talk to Professor Vector – we will have to meet ASAP to set the curriculum. We should probably identify the students we’d like to recruit this first year, send out an announcement right away so they can adjust their schedules accordingly . . . .” she rattled on. She only cased when he stoppered her mouth with a fierce kiss.

“Well,” she breathed, “we probably _could_ wait until later to start some of this,” she conceded when they finally came up for air.

“Something _else_ you’d rather be doing instead?” he enquired wickedly. She grinned and tugged him back towards the castle.

_Five Years Later . . . ._

Tea had been offered and nervously accepted, at least on Hermione’s part. Severus, however, was scowling and sat with his arms folded tightly across his chest, looking as if he expected to being told something that would thoroughly piss him off, which typically happened whenever he was abruptly summoned to the headmistress’s office in the middle of the afternoon. Further irritating him no end was Minerva searching though the papers on her desk and murmuring that she had just had it in her hand. Finally, she pulled a piece of parchment out from a large stack of documents.

“I thought you’d want to know immediately,” she began as Severus narrowed his eyes and tightened the grip he had on his arms. “I just got word by express owl that the Ministry has approved a grant of 10,000 Galleons for the next academic year,” she smirked with satisfaction.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open while Severus unfolded himself and sat up straight. “That’s . . . that’s almost . . . .” Hermione stammered, converting the figures into pounds in her head out of habit.

“Almost £50,000 – are you _sure_ you’re an Arithmantic whiz?” he sneered out of habit. She rolled her eyes in response. “What brought all of this about?” he asked the headmistress suspiciously.

“Well, there are all the testimonials from the people your potions have helped, of course, but most immediately, it’s just been announced in a late afternoon edition of _The Prophet_ ” – she held up the newspaper lying in front of her – “that we have another bumper crop of newly accredited masters in potions, herbology, and healing!” She smiled broadly as they tried to take it all in.   

“That makes, what, sixteen, now, since we started?” Hermione asked aloud.

“Seventeen,” he corrected her somewhat distractedly.

“And every last one of them got their start _right here_ , in your program,” Minerva beamed with pride. “In the face of these published successes, the Ministry made their own announcement shortly after _The Prophet_ came out. What this now means is that we can hire a part-time potions professor. You’ll only teach the fifth, sixth, and seventh year classes between you, so you’ll still be able to spot potential candidates for the program relatively early on, but you’ll have even more time to carry on with your research and work!”

“With that kind of money we’ll also be able to expand the lab – students will have their own stations!” Hermione added enthusiastically.

“Some of it will have to be apportioned to the new greenhouse that Pamona’s been agitating for, one dedicated entirely to medicinal plants. And then, of course, there is the cost of the plants themselves . . . .”

“New equipment,” Severus added.

“Books,” Hermione threw in determinedly, causing both the headmistress and potions master to look at her with amusement.

“Yes of _course_ , my dear, there will be some left over for _books_ ,” Minerva assured her warmly.

Hermione’s elation could not be stifled as they left the headmistress’s office and started to walk back to the lab.

“We may have started this program with meager funds, but do you realize that our budget has _doubled_ in just _three years_?” she asked animatedly. It was a rhetorical question because of _course_ he was fully aware of that fact, but he let her run with it – she had more than earned the right to brag. “And we’ve almost _tripled_ the number of students in the program since then as well. At least a quarter of my sixth year potions students have told me that they plan to apply to next year’s program, and Pamona said that the numbers are about the same for the sixth years in her herbology class. Neville has proved to be an absolute _wonder_ at medicinal plants,” she continued with her free association, “and naturally the senior girls just _love_ him.” That comment – and the emphasis she gave it – annoyingly brought back the vivid memory of his former student, tanned and bare chested, helping Hermione plant her first potion’s garden five years before. “Maybe we should try for a small grant from the Hogwarts Alumni Association, get him some release time – Pamona is talking about retiring soon, and we’ve got to get him some support if we want to involve him more in the program . . . .”

To ensure that she did not continue to babble on about the ridiculously handsome junior herbology professor, he stopped abruptly and tumbled her into his strong arms. “Before you start hiring more staff for this _empire_ you are building, perhaps we should take some time and celebrate . . . _properly_ ,” he proposed suggestively.

“Severus! It’s the middle of a school day!” she exclaimed before looking around to see if there were any students about. “Um . . . what did you have in mind,” she leaned in to whisper, returning the gleam in his eye.

“My nerves need some . . . _regeneration_ , and I understand you have some experience with _that sort of thing_ ,” he insinuated.

She giggled, and they walked briskly back to the dungeons where they were _both_ regenerated – once before dinner and then again before they went to sleep. She really _was_ going to _kill_ him – for years and years to come, with any kind of luck.


End file.
